


Peel The Scars From Off My Back (I Don't Need Them Anymore)

by noos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: F/M, I don't know, I'm Sorry, M/M, THIS IS SO LONG, Wish Fulfillment Fic, and it's so angsty, coming out fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noos/pseuds/noos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things Mario expects to hear when Thomas spills into his living room that night, long limbs flailing awkwardly as he barely makes it to the seat on Mario's left without breaking his neck, Marco coming out is nowhere near the realm of possibilities. Because as far as he knew, there was nothing to come out from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peel The Scars From Off My Back (I Don't Need Them Anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> I am back from the dead! Okay, this is unbelievably late, (not that anyone really cares) but real life kept getting in the way and I couldn't actually find the time to work on it as much as I wanted. It doesn't help that it was originally intended to be a 7k fic that developed into this 39k+ monstrosity, so. 
> 
> I'm not very happy with the result, because it's way angstier than I intended and I just couldn't sit and write for long periods of time so it sometimes felt like I was very disconnected from it and I always needed some time to find the pacing again. Still, I did put alot of effort into it and I promised I'd post it when it's done, and there is alot of wish fulfillment thrown in there for good measure, so here it is. 
> 
> Just a few warnings, though:  
> First off, if you think that Mario's all over the place, that's because he is. The fic is very very _very_ loosely based on personal experience, and this is how I deal with things. I'm not saying I'm a gay closeted world-famous footballer, but the ridiculous way Mario deals with his crush is how I used to deal with mine.  
>  Second, I tried to stay as true as I could to the timeline, trying to keep things as real as I can. But if you spot one international break too many, than you sure as hell don't get to complain because this is a Götzeus fic and THERE IS NO GöTZEUS WITHOUT IB DO YOU GET THAT  
> Third, if you have any affinity for Roman Weidenfeller, I suggest you steer clear of this. He makes a very tiny appearance in this, but somebody had to be a dick about it, and given his outstanding record when it comes to racism/homophobia, it was always gonna be him. Plus, I just really don't like him.  
> Fourth, look for the time jump towards the end. You'll find a date in the first line that will put things in perspective for you, but what follows will be alot more confusing if you don't realize it.
> 
> That's about it. I'm sorry for this. I hope you like it.
> 
> Title taken from the amazing Radical Face song.

"Holy fucking shit, he did it!"

"What?" David asks as Mario watches Thomas grab the remote and start flipping through the channels frantically. "Who did what?"

"Marco," Thomas says, his eyes lighting up when he finally finds the sports channel he's looking for. Mario wants to protest from his slump on the couch because they're watching Game of Thrones here, Thiago curled up against a pillow to his right and David sprawled awkwardly on the love seat, but when he turns back to look at the television, his breath catches in his throat. His ex-teammate's face almost fills the entire giant screen, the camera close enough to catch those flecks of gold in his green eyes as they crinkle at the corners, one of his dimples making an appearance when he laughs softly at something a reporter says. "He's just told the world he's gay."

\-----

Of all the things Mario expects to hear when Thomas spills into his living room that night, long limbs flailing awkwardly as he barely makes it to the seat on Mario's left without breaking his neck, Marco coming out is nowhere near the realm of possibilities. Because as far as he knew, there was nothing to come out from. 

He feels an uncomfortable heat travel through him as he straightens up to stare at the screen, at the man he spent over an entire year glued to, his eyes taking in his easy grin. Mario thinks he knows him well enough to know that this happy face he's pulling, comfortable and open and way too at ease with his surroundings is actually just a mask, a facade to shrug behind and hide the trepidation he's undoubtedly feeling. He can tell that by the light twitch in Marco's crooked grin, the way his shoulders are stiff-straight and slightly agitated, his hands hidden in his lap under the table where he knows without the shred of a doubt that he's cracking his knuckles and wringing his fingers together.

Mario blinks a few times, unable to really register what Marco's saying on TV as he stares at the screen some more, his ears pumping and his heart beating so loud in his chest, his eyes raking over the block letters framed in white at the bottom of the screen, thick and black and there for all the world to see. 

**_Euro Cup Winner and Borussia Dortmund Golden Boy Marco Reus Comes Out._ **

His head's spinning, a light tremor he can't seem to control running through his body. David and Thiago say something in the distance, but he's too lost in his own thoughts to listen properly. How did he not know? He was his best friend. True, that's not been the case for a few years now, not since Marco renewed his contract for BVB and Mario decided to bench everything in his life and focus on his career at Bayern lest he be benched for the rest of it himself, but for a while there, for an entire year actually they were very much inseparable. They ate together, slept together - Mario breaks into a sweat just thinking about how much more figurative that could've been if he'd known back then -, played together, even vacationed together. The only time they separated was when they were spending time with their families. And even then, it wasn't always the case, Marco spending a few days with him at his grandparents' place in Memmingen between Christmas and New Year's and Mario joining Marco on too many family dinners to count.

"Mario!"

He finally registers Thiago's voice snapping him out of his thoughts and he turns to stare at his thick-accented friend.

"I said, did you know?" 

Mario stares for a minute longer, trying to gather his thoughts long enough to form an answer. It's harder than it seems, what with all the memories rushing through his head, a new light cast on all of them, fleeting touches and lingering gazes he's buried so deep carrying a whole new meaning, and Mario wonders how much he's actually missed, how many details that have now disappeared into the dusty planes of memories forgotten, details that could've pointed to Marco's real nature, to Mario's feelings being potentially reciprocated by his then best friend. 

"No," he manages to croak out, his voice coming out hoarser than he wishes and thick with missed chances. "I didn't." He sounds surprised even to his own ears, wondering how he hadn't seen it when for the longest time, it was everything he'd hoped for.

"But I thought..." David mumbles, his eyes wide as they dart from the screen to Mario and back. "You know, what with you also- you guys were real tight-"

"Wait, you didn't know Marco's gay?" Thomas interrupts David, an unmistakable look of disbelief crossing his features as he looks at Mario.

"You did?" Mario asks, his brow furrowed and his tone every bit the defensive attack he means it to be. 

"Of course I did!" 

"He _told_ you?" Mario feels himself getting angrier by the second, the news now settling in a different way, more uncomfortable than surprising, a bitter taste in his mouth much like the unwelcome layer of dirt that now seems to taint every one of his memories of Marco and their friendship.

"He didn't have to," Thomas says honestly. "Manu and I have known for years. Fips and Basti, too."

Mario tries to process the admission, an inexplicable wave of humiliation overtaking him at the thought that apparently half of his friends were aware of something he himself failed to see when there was a time it was everything he was looking for. He shakes his head a little, tries to chase the confusion and discomfort out of his body before he speaks. "Did you know about me before I told you?" His voice comes out a little more shaky than he means it to be, but he'd like to think he's doing a good job of keeping himself together still. 

"We had our suspicions, but nothing too concrete," Thomas shrugs. "You were a tougher nut to crack, always trying harder to hide it anyway. And judging by recent events, you obviously still are."

Mario can't look at Thomas anymore, not with the disappointment so clear in his eyes. He doesn't mean to look at him this way, Mario knows, but Thomas has always pushed him to come clean, to be honest because " _you_ deserve to live _your_ life the way _you_ want and out in the open," and Mario's never been able to really believe he can do that, not when people are still waiting for him to mess up at every turn. 

He thinks about those pictures that surfaced online of him about a month ago with some guy he met at one of Lewy's soirées. He thinks about how he'd panicked, about how for some time the next morning, he had trouble breathing . There was nothing very incriminating about them, just two men having a laugh together and some mild touching involved, but combine that with Ann's continued absence from his games, and the rumor mill had started churning a lot faster and closer to the truth than ever before. He hadn't actually said anything to anyone when he saw the pictures plastered on the cover of every gossip filter from here to Timbuktu the next day, but Ann-Kathrin knew him too well for his own good, his paling complexion and eerie silence the entire day enough to tip her off. He knew she already felt guilty about not being able to be there for him as much as he needed her to, not when her modeling career had taken off phenomenally, with everyone from Victoria's Secret to Chanel soliciting her services, and Mario couldn't deny her the opportunities she'd worked so hard to earn. Still, she never believed him when he constantly reassured her everything was fine, which is why it didn't come as a surprise to him when she maxed out his credit card and started wearing a rock the size of her fist on a very telling finger two days later, moved some stuff around her schedule and stayed with him the entire week that followed. She made sure to attend both games he played that week, sitting front and center in the family stands with Lisa and Fabian. She'd even managed to get them photographed outside a club the day before she left to Paris, making sure they looked more in love than ever, even going as far as sneaking in a rare kiss for the cameras she knew were flashing in the distance. 

Her plan, unsurprisingly, worked like magic, with every press outlet in the city too busy trying to dig up information on his supposed proposal to do anything else, the photos of him and that man long forgotten. 

He's brought back to the present when Thiago nudges his shoulder lightly, and when he turns to look at him, his friend's worried features are enough to tip him off the scales. He gets up slowly, shoving his phone deep in his pocket as he moves towards the doorway.

"Mario, I'm sorry-"

"No, Mülli, don't," he whispers as he pulls on the first pair of sneakers he finds. "I'm fine, I promise, I just need some fresh air."

"Mario-"

"I'll be fine, I promise," he urges, trying to keep his voice from shaking as he grabs his keys off the counter and shoves them in his other pocket. He ducks his head and pulls the door open, the house feeling too stuffy and his friends' clearly worried faces too much to handle right now. "I'll be back in a bit," he adds before he shuts the door behind him and nearly sprints down the stairs in his haste to get out of there.

\-----

It's a little bit colder than he expects when he's finally out of the building, his thin shirt, while long-sleeved, nowhere near enough to stop the goosebumps from prickling all over his skin. But he doesn't want to go back to his house right now, not when his head is full of Marco, and in some weird way he thinks he deserves it, the unforgiving cold, harsh and biting against his skin, the slight tremor taking over him as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and starts walking aimlessly along the sidewalk. 

Marco's gay. His old Dortmund teammate and ex-best friend Marco. The man he was in love with for the longest time, the one he wanted nothing from but to reciprocate those feelings, the Marco he spent the last three years trying to forget, to move on from. Is gay.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mario can admit that he hasn't really moved on at all. Sure, he's been hooking up with guys left and right - well, as left and right as he can with the risk of getting recognized a looming shadow constantly crippling him - but he knows that the reason it never works out with any of those men he meets - aside from the obvious - is that they are not _him._

He's developed a type, he knows. Even Ann commented on it when she saw his pictures with that man in all those gossip columns, his blond hair and slight but clearly defined frame very reminiscent of someone else's. But Mario finds that their hair is never right, always a shade darker or lighter than he hopes for, their bodies always either too lanky or too muscular under his fingers, their smiles never easy enough or crooked enough. The worst part - or the best part, he sometimes thinks - is that they never call him Sunny. But then again _he_ hasn't called him Sunny in years either, not since that night.

He feels a shudder run through him as he continues walking along the relatively quiet street, a shudder that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

He remembers it so clearly, that night on the last International Break before the Eurocup, when they argued in their shared hotel room, their voices echoing so loud that half of their teammates stood outside their door to make sure they were okay. It was his fault they fought, his fault they'll never be as close as they were again, he knows that. It's just, when he signed that contract with Bayern, aside from foolishly believing that working with Pep would elevate him in his career, he'd wanted nothing more than to get away from Marco to try and forget him. He hoped not being near his best friend would make it easier to move on, easier to meet new people and start a new life, easier to fall out of love with his best friend, but that never really happened. Sure, he started a new life, and sure, he met a lot of new people, but he never really moved on. So, when he found himself in a hotel room with him on that day, Marco sprawled on his bed in nothing but a pair of boxers that hung too low on his hips, Mario knew he needed to get out of there lest he did something that might ruin their friendship forever. Little did he know, telling Marco he needed some fresh air would prove the catalyst to their friendship. Marco had taken it the wrong way - or the right way, depending on how you look at it - and argued that Mario was only really looking for an excuse to get away from him. Mario had tried to deny it, but Marco wouldn't listen, yelling about all those time Mario fielded his calls, all those days Mario pretended to be too busy to Skype with him when Marco knew he was just lying around the house doing nothing, all those times he shut down when Marco was around, retreating to that shell he'd built around himself. It all truly came to blows when Marco told him about he'd actually drove all the way to Munich to visit him when Mario bailed out on a trip to Berlin they'd planned with Mats and Benni. Mario had dropped the plans at the last minute, supposedly due to a severe knee injury, but when Marco got there, he was more than surprised to find Mario shooting some hoops in his building's backyard with Fabian. He'd quickly jumped back into his car without making his presence known, stayed at a hotel until he was okay enough to drive back to Dortmund. Mario just stood frozen for a long time, trying to process it, what it meant that Marco had travelled all that distance just to see him, but he didn't have any real time to understand it, because the next minute Marco had left the room. Julian came around about an hour later with his bags in tow, told Mario he and Marco were switching. Mario tried to be as nonchalant about it as possible, only allowing himself to spill a few tears when he was in the confines of his bathroom before he'd pulled the mask back on and proceeded to pretend he was okay for the rest of the break.

And that's how it's been since then, really. They're back on speaking terms now, have been for a long time, but things never actually went back to how they were before.

Why did this have to happen now? He was finally learning to live with it, finally accepting that he might not ever be himself in the light of day because his choice of career did not afford him the luxury. Why did Marco have to come out now of all times, shaking his world off its axis and canceling out every argument he's tried so hard to convince himself of when it comes to his sexuality?

He shakes his head as he turns the corner of the street, stuffs his hands deeper in his pockets and tries to clear his head of everything.

His thoughts drift back to Ann-Kathrin again instead, the almost perpetual guilt he feels whenever he thinks of her these days gnawing at his skin. The lengths this girl will go to in order to protect him baffle even him sometimes. She likes someone, he knows. Some photographer she met on her first Elle shoot and with whom she's already booked three jobs. Ann introduced them during one of the Paris Fashion Week after-parties, and Mario distinctly remembers her blushing when the guy - Leo, if he remembers correctly - complimented her on her latest shoot. She'd actually blushed. Mario doesn't remembering Ann ever blushing in all the years he's known her. It's not a thing that she does. Except when it comes to that Leo guy, apparently. But she'll never do anything about it, he knows, if only to protect his secret for as long as he needs her to, and Mario's guilt multiplies by infinity when he thinks about that. About how one of the people he loves the most in the world is sacrificing her own happiness to make sure he's okay. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, pulling him out of his desperation and bringing him back to the cold Munich street. He sees Ann's smiling face when he checks the screen, ignores the call before he stuffs the device back in his pocket. Of course she chooses the moment he's guilt-tripping over what he's making her go through to prove once again how amazing she is. She's in Dortmund so she must've heard the news, and it's only natural for her to call him when she's the only one who knows about his feelings for Marco. He never actually told her, but Ann-Kathrin's too damn smart for her own good. He didn't confirm her suspicions when she confronted him with them, but he never really had to.

He looks up as he crosses the street and realizes he's made it to of one of his favorite parks in the neighborhood, a quiet stretch of green with a sandbox and some swing sets in one of the corners. He takes his time walking around the park, losing himself to the dark sky with all its brilliant stars, the dropping temperatures harsh against his skin in ways he can almost enjoy. And because he doesn't have a modicum of self-respect, would rather spend his night feeling sorry for himself rather than pull himself together and go home, he ends up slumped on one of the benches, staring at nothing for a long time, allowing his mind to clear, a comforting numbness engulfing him before he has to put his mask back on and face the world.

\-----

They get asked about it at a press conference three days later.

It's just him, Thomas and Kloppo facing the media two days before the second leg of the Champions League quarter final. They're playing Chelsea in two days' time at home, the same night Liverpool will be squaring off with Barcelona at Anfield. He hates these pressers so much, but Rummenigge's always been only too eager to turn him into the Bayern poster boy, and ever since he's found his form again after Guardiola's departure, he's been a constant fixture on the pitch and in front of the media.

"I believe you've been instructed not to talk about this," Jürgen nearly barks at the reporter, his entirely friendly grin a stark contrast to his harsh tone. It's one the things Mario loves most about him, how he can look like a giant Labrador even when he's two steps away from committing murder. "We're here to talk about hopefully beating Chelsea in two days time."

Mario can't help but smirk a little at his coach. From the moment Klopp accepted Bayern's offer at the beginning of the current season, Mario's been pinching himself every single day, wondering when he'd gotten so lucky, especially that the last couple of years looked like they could very much spell the end of his career. However, his saving grace came in the form of Pep's sudden departure halfway through the last season. It was a right mess, there's no doubt about it, the board scrambling to find a replacement. But surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, the team overall, and Mario in particular, started regaining their confidence and skills when Gerald took over to fill the gap for the remainder of the season. They still ended the season with only the DFB Pokal, but the entire team, and Thomas especially, were brimming with excitement and relief that the worst of it was over, all of them looking forward to the new season. Of course, no one could ever help Mario flourish the way Kloppo always did, not even Jogi, which is why he's been having the season of his life this year, a personal record of 14 goals and 9 assists so far in the Bundesliga alone, trailing very closely behind Thomas' 15 goals and 6 assists.

The journalist heats up a little and asks Kloppo how he intends to win them the game instead. They get two more questions about the game as well, before another reporter is given permission to speak.

"At this moment, while irrelevant to the game, I believe everyone here would like a little comment on the recent events happening in the football world. Marco Reus, I can assume, is closer to all of you than he is to a lot of people and I for one would like to know how you feel about him coming out."

Mario feels himself pale, hates this woman more than he can explain in this moment. He really wants to focus on the upcoming game. What he does not want to think about right now is Marco coming out, how anything they say in response to this question can be picked apart and misconstrued. He can see Jürgen's nostrils flaring, can tell just how ready he is to yell at the reporters. But, before either of them can say anything, Thomas lets out a short bitter laugh and speaks up.

"Alright," Thomas barks, and Mario knows what this particular set of his shoulders means, can tell by the way he cracks his knuckles and smiles a little too widely what he's about to do. He's seen this face so many times before, whenever someone makes a sarcastic quip at Mario's weight or an inappropriate comment concerning David's skin color, or when someone insinuates that the reason Lisa married him has everything to do with the fact that he's a world-famous footballer. He's gearing up for a fight. "We're here to talk about our upcoming game but you all obviously have zero respect for that so let's just get the elephant in the room out of the way." Mario's almost jealous of Thomas' easy way with words. He basically just insulted the entire room and they're all smiling at him for it. "We're very proud of Marco."

"And it doesn't bother you in the slightest that one of your international teammates is gay?" Another reporter asks. Of course Thomas allowing one reporter to get away with it means the dam is very well broken.

"As long as it doesn't affect his play, why should it matter who he chooses to be with? Quite the opposite, actually. Judging from my own experience, I believe that the more comfortable and happy you are in your personal life, the better it's going to reflect on your style of play. And Marco's already an exceptional player with an astounding set of skills, imagine what he'll do with the ball now that he doesn't have this particular secret weighing down his every move."

"Doesn't it make things awkward though?" Another man asks, his face crinkling a little and Mario would punch him if he wasn't too busy nodding dumbly in agreement with every one of Thomas' words, feeling so proud of him right now. "Like, in the locker rooms?"

"Honestly, you people are starting to sound less and less like the professionals you're supposed to be," Thomas mutters into his microphone. "Why would it?" He answers a little louder. "As a straight man, I can very easily walk around a beach full of half-naked women without being turned on by everyone in sight, so why shouldn't Marco be able to have the same control when faced with a room full of half-naked men? Especially ones he's essentially grown up with. Besides, believe you me, there's nothing remotely sexy about our locker rooms, not when you've got around thirty grown and dirt-ridden men, sweating and smelly having exerted themselves for 90 minutes straight, all shoved in that relatively tight space."

There's a sort of quiet around the room as everyone tries to take notes, most of the reporters looking completely unimpressed with how little drama Thomas' statement afforded them. Mario looks at him, a small smile playing on his lips. He's always known that Thomas was exceptionally supportive, especially towards him and his own sexuality, but to hear his reasoning out loud, the complete conviction and astounding ease he says it with, somehow makes him feel so much better about himself. He's talking about Marco right now, true, but his statement is not exclusive to him, Mario can tell, especially when Thomas turns to look at him, his eyebrows waggling exaggeratedly. Mario can't stop the loud chuckle that escapes him when he meets Thomas' eyes.

"And did you already know about Mr. Reus' sexuality?"

Thomas groans into his microphone, his good mood clearly dampening as he turns from Mario to the crowd again. "That is, truthfully, none of your goddamn business," he spits out with the brightest smile he can muster.

"And I believe this sums that situation up perfectly," Jürgen interferes, nodding proudly at Thomas. "Thomas was nice enough to humor you in your quest to pry into private matters that frankly don't concern any of you, but this is the last we'll be talking about this particular topic and from this point on, any and all questions that don't concern our upcoming game against Chelsea will not be tolerated."

\-----

He thinks about calling Marco the day after the conference. He hasn't _just_ called Marco in a really long time, years probably, but as he sits curled around his pillow in the middle of his too-big bed, flipping through article after article about Marco on his smart pad, he feels the unmistakable need to talk to him. The articles and comments online are mostly supportive, but every once in a while words like cocksucker and pervert come to mar the otherwise overwhelming support, and Mario knows Marco, knows that these are the only words that will get to him, that these are the only comments he will think of when he's lying awake at night.

He remembers it perfectly, how they used to hole themselves in Marco's apartment after their games, giving themselves fifteen minutes to look up some articles about their performance. And he remembers that no matter how many reporters praised Marco's skills, he would always find the one article that said otherwise, that focused on the cross that went a little too wide or the goal he missed, and Marco would pale and spend the next hour staring off into space, a far off look on his otherwise perfect face as he mulls the words over and over in his head. Mario would always successfully pull him out of it by the end of the night though, sometimes with the promise of warm and delicious food, other times by shoving a joystick in his hands and starting up a game of FIFA, and once or twice, when things got a little too bad, Mario spent the night curled around Marco, running his fingers through his soft gold locks, willing himself not to think about how good it felt to be that close to Marco, nor about Marco's heartbeat against his, his face buried in the crook of his neck and his breath fanning Mario's sensitive skin, fingers finding purchase in Mario's shirt against his heart.

He forces himself out of the memory, pulls out his phone to dial Marco's number. He thinks it might probably be awkward, that the conversation will not go smoothly, not when he and Marco have drifted so much apart, but he also thinks he doesn't care. He misses Marco so much in this moment that he doesn't care about anything other than hearing his voice on the other end of the line.

He's saved from his potentially catastrophic idea by the sound of the front door opening, followed by Thomas and David's booming voices. He's given them and Thiago keys to his place a long time ago, right after Fabian moved in with his girlfriend, something entirely comforting about knowing he had friends he was that close to. Still, he's not ready to face them yet, hoping for some more time by himself, so when Thiago checks in on him a couple of minutes later, he hides his phone under his pillow and closes his eyes pretending to sleep. It seems to do the trick, because Thiago only stays for a minute before he leaves the room and shuts the door quietly behind him. He feels bad about lying to them, especially Thiago who's been nothing but supportive since the minute they met, always there for Mario and ready to fight off every one of his critics, but he just needs some time alone to think things through. Marco coming out has messed with his head in ways he didn't know possible, reigniting that overwhelming feeling of love for his friend that he never managed to truly get rid of, making him second guess every one of the choices and actions he's made throughout the years.

What if he came out, too? For one thing, it would take some attention off Marco, and he knows his old teammate would appreciate that. It would also allow Mario to be himself out in the open. It would allow Ann to live her life the way she deserves, not stuck with a boy she doesn't really want to be with but only stays with in order to protect. And maybe, if he came out too, someone else would feel strong enough to follow his and Marco's leads, maybe Thiago and David. They can let the world know they're very much into both genders and very much together right now. They deserve to be together out in the open. And Mario really believes the world deserves to know about them, because while they insist that it's still not serious and that they don't know if they're in it for the long haul, he's never known any two people more compatible or more affectionate towards one another. Maybe even someone else in some other club or league can come out. Maybe people would start getting used to the idea.

He picks up his phone again, ready to call Marco, but he's sidetracked once again when he hears someone turn the TV up in the distance. He hears words like Champions League and Dortmund and remembers that calling Marco right now would be useless since he's probably warming up for the game. They're playing a very much out-of-form Real Madrid tonight, the second leg of their quarter final at the Signal Iduna, an almost sure win given that they're already up by three goals from their meeting at the Bernabeu.

Mario sighs weakly, dropping his phone again, staring at the dozens of frames littering his wall, pictures that he can make out even in the dark. There's a few of him with his family, some with Ann, a lot of him with David and Thomas and Thiago, with the rest of his Bayern teammates too. There's even a few of him back at Dortmund, of both times he won the Bundesliga with them, and one of him and Marco doing their old goal celebration, the one they haven't done in years, not since his last few weeks in Dortmund. Then there's the two in the middle, his most cherished ones, a photograph taken back in July 2014, a night he'll never forget, the golden cup cradled in his hands as he stands in the middle of the locker room, a bright grin on his face and a jersey that's most certainly not his draped carefully around his shoulders. Mario remembers it perfectly, Mats and Erik coming up to him and shoving the cup in his hands right after he got off the phone with Marco, urging the hero of the night to smile for the camera. The other picture is of him and his national team teammates lifting the cup in Paris in 2016. He's sandwiched between Marco and Thomas, the heroes of the night, their arms around eachother, and he and Marco are looking at eachother with the biggest smiles on their faces, having momentarily forgotten all about their supposed dispute, or maybe too happy and elated to think about it. After all, their falling-out did nothing to affect their understanding on the pitch, and they went on to form a deadly trio with Thomas, scoring goal after goal throughout the tournament, culminating in their 2-0 win over The Netherlands that night, two perfect passes from Mario, one that Marco sent crashing into the keeper's net, the other a header from Thomas that sailed past everyone and into the net with such fluidity that it took everyone about five seconds to understand they'd scored again.

He really really misses Marco. He doesn't understand why his feelings have crept back up on him like that. It's been a really long time, he thought he'd forgotten or moved on or at least learned to live with it. But right now, curled in the middle of his bed with nothing but his old best friend on his mind, he wishes for nothing else but to be able to talk to him. He shoves his phone in his pocket and pushes himself off the bed instead, splashes some water on his face before he makes his way towards the living room.

He finds Thomas watching the warm-ups with his phone in his hands. His friend looks up and smiles brightly when he hears him coming, gently tapping the seat next to him on the couch.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asks him as Mario plops down on the cushions.

Mario knows his face is probably more tired than he wants it to be. It doesn't help that Thomas has always been a lot more observant than he let on.

"Yeah," he reassures weakly, nodding his head a little. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"I know you miss him," Thomas says soothingly, nodding slightly towards the TV where the camera's focused on Marco as he jogs lightly alongside Mats and Pierre. "It's okay if you do."

Mario looks at him for a moment, his cheeks flushed and his throat closing up. He hates that Thomas knows him that well. Ann-Kathrin may be the only one who knows about his feelings for Marco, but Mario would be an idiot not to see that Thomas has a pretty clear idea too.

"How's the crowd looking?" He asks, changing the subject and trying to keep it together.

"Pretty supportive so far." Mario breathes a sigh of relief at Thomas' words, partly because he's going along, mostly because he's been worrying himself silly over Marco's first game since his official coming out. "The commentator mentioned crowd security removing some people with homophobic signs, but for the most part, people are chanting Marco's name louder than ever, even the away crowd. 'm pretty sure I saw a sign that reads 'we're all a little gay for you, Reus.'"

"Everyone _is_ a little gay for him, aren't they?" Mario chuckles lightly, feeling somewhat lighter, knowing that Marco's getting the support he needs.

"It's hard not to be," Thomas raises his eyebrows and Mario laughs louder.

"Yeah well, Dortmund supporters were always very kind to their own," he mumbles.

"Just as long as they don't move to Bayern?"

"Or Schalke," Mario shrugs. "Is David cooking?" He asks after a moment, not really wanting to think about his move away from Dortmund, about how much it actually cost him, about all the hate he had to endure after. "It smells great."

"Cooking might be pushing it a little," Thomas grins good-naturedly, going along once again and Mario smiles gratefully at him. "He's making grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Thiago with him?"

"He was, but then he was trying to molest David in the kitchen and I want to eat before the game starts. So I had to send Thiago on a beer errand since you are out."

"I am never out of beer," Mario states matter-of-factly and Thomas winks at him. "Besides, we have a game tomorrow, we can't drink."

"Good think Thiago has shitty memory," he shrugs with a smile before turning his attention back to his phone.

Mario chuckles as Thomas starts typing furiously into the device. He settles back on the couch, slumping a little and propping his socked feet up on the coffee table. He fishes his phone out of his pocket when it vibrates, finds that Thomas tagged him in an Instagram post. His breath catches in his throat a little when he sees the picture from the Euro Cup, the same one he's got hanging on the wall in his room with the three of them pressed together.

_Getting ready to watch **@marcinho11** kill it out there with **@gotzemario @da_27 @Thiago6** Good luck my friend! **#BVBRM #UCL #rootingfortheenemy #justthisonceReus**_

Mario smiles at his phone and then turns to look at Thomas who has a proud grin on his face.

"I seriously don't know why they call me pummelfee when you're clearly the one who thinks they're a fairy godmother."

Thomas laughs and Mario sighs a little, slumping back against the couch before they both turn their attention to the television.

Dortmund end up winning the game, Marco converting a free kick with such ease in the 76th minute to raise his team's tally to two, and when the camera pans over to the crowd, to the family stands in particular, Mario's stomach tightens uncomfortably. Erik's out injured, sitting there in the stands next to his girlfriend, Nico and Melanie on his other side, her slight baby bump on display. Mario's missed all three of them so much, and he feels his throat close up at the sight, his stomach clenching uncomfortably when he takes Nico in, notes how much he's grown and how much Mario's missed, how happy Melanie looks as she cheers next to Erik. She's pregnant again, he didn't even know that, he hasn't even see Mia properly, not since that one time he ran into Mel at the train station in Dortmund. But that's not what really bothers Mario in this scenario. No, the reason his chest starts aching is the two men cheering right next to Nico, one of them high-fiving the kid like they're thick as thieves. Of course Robin and Marcel would be there to watch Marco play, they're his best friends, that much Mario has learned from all those Instagram posts. But he'd be lying if he said he understood it. After all, he has found himself lying in bed on too many occasions trying to guess where they might've been when he himself lived in Dortmund, why Marco never introduced him to them if they're as close as they claim to be. _Maybe you weren't special enough to warrant an introduction_ , his mind always eventually throws at him until he has to shut his eyes tight against the irrational tears threatening to slide down his cheeks every time. Which is why seeing them in the family stands right now rubs him the wrong way. He knows his friends will laugh at him if he says any of this out loud, so he keeps to himself, folding his arms against his aching chest in an attempt to keep it together, swallowing around the thick lump in his throat and burying himself further into his cushions.

\-----

Bayern thrash Chelsea the next day and Mario and Ann call it quits, whatever it is, three days before their Bundesliga game against Dortmund. She doesn't want to of course, swears she's okay, that she doesn't mind leading this life, that she wants to help him as long as he needs her to and Mario loves her so much more for it, but he can't do this to her anymore.

"Mario, you really don't have to do this," she repeats for the third time in less than ten minutes, nearly pleading with him, curled up on a wooden chair as they sit outside on his terrace early in the morning, coffee mugs on the low table between them.

"Yes, I do, Ann," he insists, his grave eyes turning to look at her, already feeling so tired at only 9 in the morning. "If not for me than for you. How is this ever going to end if we don't actually end it? We can't play this part forever, the perfect couple the world wants us to be. Not if we want to have any semblance of a normal life."

"But-"

"Nothing has to change between us," he's quick to add, reaching over to lock their hands together in a comforting manner. Maybe more for his sake than hers, if he's being honest. "You're still my best friend and I still need you next to me in order to do everything, from tying my laces to winning the Champions League trophy. This is still your house. David, Thomas, Lisa, Thiago, even Marco, they're still your friends, and Fabian and Felix your family. But there's also Leo now."

"I don't like Leo," Ann argues weakly, her voice trailing off and her hand squeezing Mario's. He looks up at her, gives her a pointed look over his cup of coffee as he takes a sip. "Alright, I do," she backtracks, smiling lightly. "But there will be other Leos."

"And when they come you will be free to do whatever you want with them because you won't have me holding you back." She's about to argue again, he knows, but he smiles back at her instead and speaks up before she can find another excuse. "This is also about , Ann," he tries again, willing her to agree to this while he's still strong enough to do what's right. He's pretty sure that if she argues for another two minutes, he will revert back into his shell, will ask her to forget everything he just said and keep on pretending to be the love of his life. "I need to start owning up to what I am. I owe it to myself." They're both quiet for a few minutes, Ann's fearful eyes raking over him like she's trying to see through him, trying to find the lie in his words, the uncertainty behind them. "I'm not saying this will be easy for either of us," he speaks again when he can't stand the quiet anymore. "We might not really be together, but this is still the best relationship I've ever had."

The honesty in his words seems to take Ann by surprise, but she doesn't say anything, staring at him for another few minutes before she speaks up.

"How do you want to do it, then?" She asks, letting go of Mario's hand and playing with the ring on her finger.

"Well, you can keep the ring, for one thing," Mario states, nodding his head towards the piece of jewelry.

"Won't that be counterproductive?"

"We never confirmed our engagement," Mario shrugs. "So this could very well be something you got yourself. And I want you to keep it. Something to remember me by."

"Remember you by?" Ann scoffs, her eyebrows raised skeptically and the hint of a smile gracing her lips. "You think that by fake-breaking up with me you're going to get rid of me?"

Mario laughs lightly, shaking his head methodically and smiling at her. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good," she nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "What about the press?"

"To hell with them," Mario groans, rubbing his face. "They'll figure it out when we start kissing other people."

"What if either of us is accused of cheating?"

"Well, then I'll release a statement and let them know that we've been broken up for a while. They'll have to believe us when they notice that we're actually still hanging out together and dragging our dates along. I won't let anyone fuck up your reputation, don't worry," he reassures honestly. 

"Jesus, Mario, we're not in the fifties, I don't need you to protect my virtue. Besides, I'm not worried about that, I trust you," she smiles and takes his fingers again. They stare at each other for another moment before she speaks again. "Does that mean you're going to tell Marco?"

His heart squeezes at the name, his breath catching in his throat and his fingers suddenly stiff in Ann-Kathrin's hand.

"I'm afraid that ship has long sailed," he murmurs eventually, a sadness suddenly overtaking him as he looks at the ground.

"You won't know until you ask," Ann whispers back, her fingers squeezing his hand until his eyes meet hers again. "Go see him when you're in Dortmund on Friday."

\-----

So he does. He's barely been in Dortmund for a few hours when he finds himself parked across the street from Marco's house, a street lamp darkly illuminating his figure as he stares at his tired eyes in the rearview mirror. He's been sitting in his car for twenty minutes now, trying to gather the courage to get out and walk over to Marco's front door, knock on his ex-best friend's house and tell him he's been in love with him since the moment he laid eyes on him. He sounds ridiculous to his own ears, but that doesn't make it any less true. He needs to do this. Except that his legs don't seem to want to get with the program. Didn't he have to physically stop himself from calling Marco a few days ago? Where has all that courage gone? He needs to get it together and go through with it before he changes his mind again.

His hand is on the door handle when he notices the porch lights turning on. Before he can even react, Marco's front door is opening and three figures make their way out onto the street. His heart skips so many beats he thinks he's having a cardiac arrest when he recognizes Marco. His usually perfect hair is a little more mussed up than Mario's used to, its color a little darker than what Marco usually goes for. He hasn't bleached his locks in a while, Mario remembers, but his lopsided grin is on full display even against the dark sky, his skin almost translucent illuminated by the moon and its many stars. Mario feels his own face contort into a painful smile, so inexplicably happy to see him, his lungs feeling like they've finally been allowed the air they've been craving so much for the past lifetime or so, burning with the need to run over to Marco and just touch him. But then, and as it never fails to do, reality kicks in like a knife to his stomach. Mario finally manages to take his eyes off Marco's face to properly take in the other two people on the street, and he finally notices Robin getting into one of the cars in Marco's driveway. The other guy, Marcel, walks over to the passenger's side of the same car, stopping for a moment to look back at Marco. They smile at each other and Marco walks over to him, his hand coming up to tangle in Marcel's short hair as their lips meet in a brief kiss.

It's the longest two seconds of Mario's life, his heart painfully seizing in his chest, his breath burning its way out of it, short and labored and so very agonizing, the air he craved so much before now leaving his body like he can't get it out fast enough. He starts his car before he can even think about the dangers of driving when he's pretty sure he's having a panic attack, speeds past Marco's house as he tries not to think about Marco and Marcel kissing out on the street, about the sudden pain threatening to engulf him completely, about how utterly stupid this idea was.

He only makes it two blocks before he has to stop his car on the side of the road, kicking the door open and nearly falling out of the vehicle in his haste to get some fresh air. It takes him a few minutes to get the needed air to travel into his lungs, slumping down against his car and steadying himself against it, trying to count to ten in his head like his dad taught him when he was little and still had panic attacks whenever Fabian made him watch those horror flicks of his before going to bed.

\-----

He doesn't tell anyone about that night. When Thiago asks him where he disappeared to after he's back, he tells him he was visiting his family, which is not exactly a lie as he did drop by his parents' place after his breakdown on the side of the road.

It all makes sense now that he thinks about it. With the plaguing homophobia in the field, there's no real reason for a footballer to come out if there's nothing pushing him to do it. Or no one. The only time Mario used to ever truly think about coming out was when he deluded himself into thinking he and Marco could ever be together, imagining what their lives could've been like if Marco was gay and out in the open and happy. The irony of it all is not lost on him right now.

He looked happy, Mario remembers sadly. Comfortable and relaxed and seemingly content to be able to kiss his boyfriend out in the open and Mario feels a little like a prick, unable to do anything but wallow in his own misery at the thought of Marco so at ease with someone else.

He thinks about the first time Fabian moved out of the house when Mario was only 12. It was only for a year, he was doing a student exchange program somewhere in the US, but Mario was so angry with him, so upset he was leaving that he'd locked himself in his room and refused to come out and say goodbye to him. His mom had found him in bed hours later, her kind eyes glistening with tears and her cheeks flushed, and when Mario asked her how she could do it, how she could let her son leave, she'd told him all about the sacrifices people make for those they love, all about putting their happiness before yours. She had to be happy that Fabian was finding his way _because_ she loved him and not in spite of it. Mario had understood back then, had finally gone out to see his brother off before he left, hugging him tightly and telling him he'll miss him, promising to call and tell him all about the goals he would be scoring for his youth club football team.

But he can't find it in him to be happy right now, can't pretend to be okay that Marco's okay.

He's in the hotel lobby with Thiago, David, Thomas, Manu and Antoine (Griezmann, that is, the talented little fucker having finally accepted to join Bayern last season), and Mario's not really listening to his friends' banter, taking in the stack of magazines on the coffee table in front of them instead. He rifles through them in a wasted effort to clear his head, but it only upsets him even more. Marco's pictures with Marcel are all over, at the supermarket and on the street and in the car and after Dortmund games. There's even an interview with Marcel in one of those gossip rags, something about how good it finally was to be able to be with Marco out in the open when they'd been hiding their relationship for the past year. Mario laughs bitterly , throwing the magazine away halfway through, turning his attention back to Antoine and David and trying to keep the image of Marco with someone else out of his mind.

He doesn't get a wink of sleep that night, lying awake staring at the ceiling of the room instead, trying to think back to a time when it was Marco sprawled out on the other bed instead of Thomas. He remembers one night in particular, back when Marco had been in Dortmund for only a few months. They were in Freiburg, the day before their game, the temperatures outside so low that the government had to issue a warning. The players all went to bed early in an effort to fight off the cold, but try as he might, Mario could not get himself to warm up, his breath heavy and labored and his teeth chattering loudly against the quiet of the room. Before Mario could understand what was happening Marco was in bed with him, adding his own blanket on top of Mario's and wrapping a thick wool throw around them, scooting closer to Mario until their faces were inches apart and trapping them in a warm cocoon. He'd proceeded to wedge Mario's toes between his calves and take his hands in his, softly warming his fingers up with his breath, blowing and rubbing until Mario could feel his body flush and relax against Marco's. Which was quite ridiculous because Mario had never been able to relax when he shared a bed with someone. Even when it was just Fabian or Felix, he was never okay with the kind of proximity and intimacy that bed-sharing entailed. But here was this boy hijacking half of Mario's relatively tight bed, cheeks flushed and eyes warm as they took Mario in, lips protruding out as he softly blew on Mario's fingers, trapping the boy against him and forcing warmth into him, a warmth Mario had never thought he could feel. Despite Mario's skidding heart, they'd fallen asleep so easily after that, and when Mario woke up in the morning Marco was back in his bed. Mario had wondered for the longest time if he'd imagined the whole thing, but there was no mistaking Marco's lingering scent on Mario's pillow.

He gets out of bed at dawn, forcing his thoughts away from Marco, restless and tired and unable to pretend to sleep anymore. He takes a long shower before he heads out of the room. It's barely 6 when he's making his way to the elevator, but he's not surprised to find Thiago standing in front of it. His friend always did have trouble sleeping outside of his own bed.

They make their way silently downstairs, comfortable and easy and happy to be together, and when Thiago lays a casual hand on Mario's shoulder, he feels himself relax a little under his friend's touch, his strong fingers comforting in ways he can't explain. He doesn't like to think how his life would've turned out if Thiago hadn't signed that contract with Bayern the same year he did. If Thomas and David had not been there waiting for them. He would've made other friends he supposes, gotten closer to some of his other teammates probably, and Boa would've been there to help him through, but Mario doubts he would've been as comfortable without his three best friends. He'd only gotten this close to a few people in his life, David, Thiago, Thomas and Ann in Munich, Marco in Dortmund and Fabian when they'd moved in together. His friendship with Marco took him by surprise, so easy and fast like they'd never been strangers, only friends that had been apart for a while and had finally found each other again. Of course, when Mario realized that his heart beating out of his chest anytime Marco was around signaled a lot more than platonic feelings, he couldn't get out of there fast enough, get away from Marco and all the things he made him feel. But Thiago, David and Thomas, they're the ones he couldn't do without. And as he listens to Thiago rant about David kicking him off the bed on three different occasions during the night, Mario sure hopes he never has to try.

\-----

His impromptu jogging session with Thiago only helps him keep his mind off the game and Marco for so long, and he ends up fretting about it the rest of the day. It starts during their morning training session, the last one before the match, and he doesn't manage to keep Marco out of his thoughts after that. He has to face him, doesn't have a choice, not when they're both in the starting lineups of their respective teams. He resigns himself to interact as little as possible with Marco unless absolutely necessary.

That all proves a complete failure when push comes to shove. The Bayern players are already lining up in the tunnel ten minutes before kickoff when the Dortmund boys starts filtering in, Mario fidgeting nervously in line, Thomas and Manu giggling next to him. He lets out a genuine laugh when he spots Nuri, the boy's eyes lighting up when they find his friend and rushing over to pull him into a hug. Mario forgets all about the butterflies in his stomach as he greets his old teammate, a burst of genuine affection taking over him as he ruffles Nuri's hair. He sees Kloppo hugging Shinji and Pierre when Nuri finally moves to stand in line, and he's too taken with the way Kloppo's patting Pierre's cheeks like a proud father to notice Marco coming over to them. He only realizes what's happening when Marco pulls Thomas into a hug, the two friends laughing excitedly next to Mario, and he can only stand there and stare at the boy who's taken over his thoughts. He looks good, so good, and happy, his eyes crinkling as he pulls away to look at Thomas, his usually subdued smirk a genuine smile now, teeth slightly crooked and dimples on full display. Before Mario understands what's happening Marco's on him, thin arms coming in to circle his back and pull them closer together, and for a second Mario can only stand there frozen to the ground, unable to feel anything other than Marco's overwhelming warmth, his light stubble tickling Mario's neck and his scent engulfing him completely. The second is gone and Mario feels himself reciprocate without another moment of hesitation, his arms coming up to wrap around Marco's waist, fingers clutching the light fabric of his yellow jacket, smiling into Marco's chest when he feels his friend's laughter reverberate through him.

"Thank you for what you said at the press conference," Marco says, his eyes focused on Thomas as he pulls away from Mario, keeping one hand firmly on his shoulder, but Mario still feels himself stiffening at the loss of contact, suddenly cold and confused and so completely mad at himself for not sticking to his carefully kept rules, yet still unable to loosen his grip on Marco's shirt. What happened to only interacting when absolutely necessary? He's aware he didn't have time to go into specifics when he was having that internal pep talk, but he's pretty sure clinging to Marco like his life depends on it, all because he came to say hello to him is neither minimal interaction nor remotely necessary. "I really appreciate you supporting me like that."

"Please, Marco," Thomas drawls dismissively, waving his hand around and snorting not unlike a horse. "You're making it sound like there was ever any real possibility we would've done anything else."

"My bad," Marco laughs lightly, his eyes finding Mario's again.

They stand for a moment too caught up to do anything other than stare at each other, and for a time Mario forgets about everything else, about the game and the fans and the other players around them, Marco's green eyes the only thing grounding him to this world, the feeling of skin on skin where Marco's fingers graze his neck the only one that matters right now.

He can feel it, the _I miss you_ he's dying to admit bubbling to the surface, so close that he can almost taste it. He opens his mouth, completely ready to surrender to it when Marco's shoved out of the way, and Mario can barely make out the soft head of dark curls and kind eyes before a strong set of arms envelops him completely, warm lips pressing happy kisses to his hair.  Mario wants to cry for a minute, his wasted moment with Marco the only thing on his mind, but then Mats laughs in his ear, _I missed you, pummelfee_ rolling so easily off his tongue, and Mario can't help but smile. By the time the defender pulls away Marco's already gone, queuing in line behind the new Dortmund keeper, his eyes meeting Mario's for just a second before he turns away.

It's a pretty even game. The first half is quite uneventful in the scoring department, Mats and Jérôme playing like the defensive beasts they are, Mario and Marco and Thomas and Pierre all coming very close to scoring on several occasions, but ultimately failing to nick the ball past the keepers.

Shit hits the fan, so to speak, during the second half. Mario finally breaks through the defense in the 83rd minute, sneaking behind an unsuspecting Neven who's too focused on trying to keep Antoine from crossing. Thomas spots him at exactly the right moment, crosses the ball to him in a perfect pass. Mario jumps high in the air and allows the ball to land on his chest, easing it onto his foot and sending it sailing past the scrambling keeper. The only thing he feels when he hears the roar of the Bayern fans is relief, but he was never able to celebrate a goal against Dortmund, never knew how to enjoy keeping his old teammates from achieving their dreams. So he tears his eyes away from the ball tucked safely in the back of the net, lowering his head as he walks away and closing his eyes when the first of his cheering teammates gets to him, only lifting his head back up when they finally disperse, meeting David's eye and smiling lightly as the latter ruffles his hair.

It's barely two minutes later that Marco surprises an unsuspected Juan, expertly stealing the ball and running past him towards the goal. Mario can see Boa react immediately, running towards Marco all the way from the other side, sliding down the grass and kicking the ball away just as he reaches Marco. Their feet tangle together right outside the box, sending Marco flying a few feet ahead, landing rather harshly on his shoulder. Mario can do nothing but stare for a moment, breathing harsh and eyes wide as he sees Jérôme get up and run to check up on Marco. It feels like a few hours - probably seconds - before Jérôme pulls away from Marco and waves at the medics to hurry up.

"He's not getting up," Mario whispers, his voice breaking a little as he tries not to let the panic settling deep in his chest take over. This can't be happening again. "Why is he not getting up?" He asks a little louder, looking at Thiago who's standing next to him with a grim look on his face.

Mario finally finds his footing, running towards his injured friend and pushing some people out of the way to get to him. He kneels next to him as soon as he's close enough, taking in Marco's pale face, grass sticking to his forehead and eyes shut tight in pain as his hand rubs his right shoulder.

"Marco," Mario whispers in panic, fingers coming up to rest on his cheek, his other hand pushing his hair out of the way, willing him to open his eyes and look at him. "Marco, look at me," he pleads, voice edging on panic, and he can feel people crowding in on them, teammates probably wanting to check up on Marco as well. His friend's eyes suddenly shoot open, pupils dilating as they find Mario's, the pained look making way to surprise, and Mario realizes exactly where they are and what he's doing. He pulls his hands away from Marco's face like he's just been set on fire, scrambling back to get up right as the medics finally reach them, standing up and turning away from Marco.

"Fuck," he groans in frustration, getting away from the injured player as fast as he can. "Fuck fuck fuck, Mario, you idiot."

"No one saw anything," Thomas reassures, materializing out of thin air. "At least not the public," he continues. "There were too many of us flanking you guys. And Boa, Mats, David, none of them care what they saw."

"What was I thinking?" Mario whispers, shaking his head at his own stupidity and looking at the ground.

"One of the people you care about the most in this world is lying on the other side of this pitch in pain," Thomas states bluntly, and Mario panics for a second, eyes wide as he looks around to make sure no one can hear them. He breathes a little easier when he finds that they're practically alone, everyone else huddled near Marco. "You were thinking how you don't want him to get hurt again. We all were. But we still have five minutes to this game, Mario, and your head needs to be on that if you don't want people talking. He's going to be fine, it's just a bad landing."

"You don't know that," Mario argues, voice coming out a little harsher than he intends as he tries to regulate his breathing.

"Yes I do," Thomas insists, thankfully not getting rebuffed by Mario's less-than-pleasant attitude. "Look, he's getting back up," he adds, nodding his head towards Marco.

Mario turns to check for himself, finds Marco up on his feet, medics on either side of him, but he seems to be walking fine on his own, no limping or wincing of any sort, a bottle of water dangling from his lips as he rotates his injured shoulder perfectly. Mario breathes a sigh of relief as he takes him in, overwhelmed with the relief he feels when Marco raises one of his hands in the air, a thumb up to reassure the cheering crowd of his physical well-being.

Mario feels his heart stutter and his breath catch in his throat only when Marco's eyes suddenly find his all the way from across the pitch, the intensity so clear despite the distance that Mario can do nothing but look away. He jogs up the where the free kick's about to be taken by Pierre instead, trying not to think about Marco anymore.

Manu blocks the shot but sends it sailing outside the field, and Mario can't stop the relief that washes over him in waves when he sees that Marco's well enough to take the corner shot.

Dortmund don't manage to break through Bayern's defense by the time the referee whistles the end of the match and the Bavarians are declared winners of the tight race. Mario can't find it in him to stay for the celebration though, thankful that Bayern fans have always excused his aloofness when it comes to post-match celebrations after Dortmund games.

His eyes scan the crowd of players one last time, finds Marco nestled in Kloppo's arms, and he can't help the small smile that plays on his lips. But it disappears as soon as Marco looks at him, letting go of Jürgen and walking a few steps towards him. Mario freezes for a second, heart beating wildly in his chest before he chickens out and runs towards the locker rooms before Marco can reach him.

Mats comes by their locker room some time later, a dirty jersey scrunched up in his hand, his eyes sparkling when they find Mario.

"He said to give you this," Mats throws casually, handing him the dirty jersey.

Mario can't help but stare at the frayed shirt in his lap, running his fingers over the block letters of Marco's last name, the number that was his so long ago feeling particularly silky under his digits. He doesn't remember the last time he and Marco exchanged shirts at the end of a game. Probably not since his first game against Dortmund. He takes his time pulling his own jersey off, hands the garment to Mats when it's over his head.

"Is there anything you want me to tell him?" Mats asks and Mario wonders how many people exactly know about his damn crush.

_Tell him I miss him._

"Tell him I hope he's okay."

\-----

His shower takes a lot longer than he intends, staring off into space with nothing but Marco on his mind distracting him the entire time as he shampoos his hair. By the time he walks out of the shower with his red towel wrapped around his waist, half the team's already fully dressed, the other half not even in the locker room anymore. Thankfully, he's not doing the press line tonight, Thiago and Antoine assigned to it instead, so he can afford to take his sweet time. Next to him, David's still in just his boxers - David is always the last one to finish, taking an exceptionally long time in the shower every single time - so Mario relaxes as he starts to get dressed. He doesn't have the patience to stand in front of a mirror and style his hair tonight, so he throws a red cap that matches his assigned red sweatpants and shirt, waits for David to finish working on his own longer locks before they walk out together.

They're late enough that most of the crowds have gone home, but as they walk out the door and make their way towards their bus, a few fans are still waiting here and there, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorites. Of course, Mario doesn't have to look up to know they're glaring at him, some Dortmund supporters still not over his "backstabbing" almost five years later. Which is why he doesn't look up when he hears his name being called several times.

It's not until he hears the loud "Sunny!" that he finally raises his head and looks back, meets Ivy's eyes for a brief second before a small blond hurricane slips past the iron barriers and hurtles himself at Mario. There's some security around, and they're about to force the boy away from him, but Mario raises his hands at them in a clear sign to back away before he crouches down and hugs Nico back. He realizes just how much Nico's grown when he doesn't actually have to crouch that low, the boy's head almost up to his chest now.

"I missed you, Sunny."

He feels more than hears Nico's muffled words, his arms squeezing Mario's back and his soft blond hair tickling Mario's chin.

"Me too, buddy. I missed you, too."

He's thrown by just how much he means the words, how much he's been craving seeing Marco's family since the last time Nico attacked him in a hug at the Euro Cup.

He looks up again and finds Ivy smiling at him, a girl that looks about three years old cradled in her arms. He smiles back before pulling away from Nico, looking at the small boy, the hair that looks so much like Marco's and the number 11 jersey he's proudly clad in. Nico's eyes leave his for a minute to look to his right and Mario suddenly remembers David next to him.

"Nico, this is David," he says with a smile, pointing at his teammate. "He's my teammate and one of my best friends. Nico here is the world's greatest Dortmund supporter, my fellow pretzel enthusiast and Marco's nephew."

"Nice to meet you, Nico," David nods with a genuine chuckle.

"I think you're a great player," Nico declares, jumping straight to the point. "I would buy your jersey but you play for my sworn enemy so I can't make my dad pay for that. I'll just wait until you grow some sense and move to Dortmund."

"Thank you," David laughs a little louder, "I'll keep that in mind."

"I'll follow you to the bus in a minute," Mario whispers to David as he takes Nico's hand in his, and David only nods solemnly before walking back towards the bus and leaving Mario to make his way towards where Ivy's still standing behind the barriers.

He lets go of Nico's hand when they reach her, wrapping his arms around the girl he's missed so much.

"Hey you," she coos in his ear and kisses his temple like the older sister he never had. "I've missed you."

"Right back at you," he replies genuinely, squeezing her tighter despite the little girl they're basically squishing between them. "And who might this little one be?" He asks as he pulls away, smiling widely at the little girl with the green eyes and light brown curls.

"Mia," Ivy smiles as she looks at her niece. "This is Mario, he's your uncle Marco's friend."

"His best friend," Nico jumps in and Mario feels his throat close up. He only wishes they were still as close as Nico seems to think they are.

Mia looks at his outstretched hand suspiciously but doesn't reach back for it, only smiling shyly at him, burying herself further into Ivy's shoulder before turning to whisper something in her ear.

"Yes Mia," Ivy nods her head at the toddler, smiling proudly. "He's the knight with the brightest smile." She turns back to look at Mario. "Marco tells them stories about knights when he's putting them to bed," Ivy starts to explain when she notices the confused look on his face. "And because it's Marco, his knights are clad in yellow armor and they play football," she adds, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, he's the knight with the quickest feet, Pierre's the knight with the strangest hair, Mats is the knight everyone loves, and you're the knight with the sunny smile.

"A smile so bright that the other knights never need light or the sun or fire to see because Mario is their sun," Mia explains conspiratorially, like she's remembering a secret she's been taught.

Mario's smile doesn't falter, but the butterflies in his stomach riot so bad he thinks he might fly. Mia was born just a few months before they had their falling out and yet she knows Mario. Marco's told her about him, even if it's in some weirdly told children's story.

"Melanie not here?" He manages to choke out, looking back at Ivy.

"God no," Ivy snorts. "She can barely move around with that bump of hers. About to pop any day now. Thought I'd give her some time off before she has to deal with another cutie like this one," she adds, nodding at her niece who giggles and hides in her shoulder again.

"I wish I could've seen her," Mario says honestly, laughing at the image, and Mia suddenly feels so at ease around him that she herself reaches to grasp his fingers.

"You know my mommy too?" She asks with eyes so wide and a smile on her face.

"I do," Mario confirms, nodding and smiling at her.

"Mario," he hears Nico say, feeling a tug on his shirt. "When are you going to come by our house? You promised you'd teach me some new tricks when you were in town.

Mario doesn't know what to say, feels the smile that was so easy before suddenly turn into a frown. How does he tell Nico that he can't see him as much as he'd like, not when he and his uncle are barely on speaking terms.

"Nico," Ivy tries to intervene, clearly noting the tension on Mario's face. "Marco's been teaching you plenty of tricks alre-

"But he doesn't know how to dribble past players as well as Mario does," Nico interrupts, his voice a little too watery for Mario's liking, tugging on every one of his heart strings, reminding him of all the things he could've had if only he'd managed to get over that stupid crush of his. "And we have so much more fun when they're both there, they work better as a team-

"Uncle Marco!" Mia suddenly yells, throwing herself out of Ivy's arms and Mario panics for a split second before he realizes Marco's there to catch her. She nestles herself in his arms, her tiny arms clutching his neck, and it takes Mario a moment to register that Marco's actually there, hair perfectly intact and suit tailored to perfection.

He didn't even hear him coming.

Marco's eyes find Mario's for the hundredth time today, but they're so close this time, barely inches apart, Mario doesn't even have to reach out that far to touch his face.

Mia chooses that exact moment to turn in Marco's arms and look at Mario again. "I like him, uncle Marco," she declares, leaning her head on Marco's shoulder and reaching her hand for Mario's again. "You should have him on your team.

"He was," Marco whispers, his eyes hazing a little as he takes Mario in. The sound of his voice makes Mario sick to his stomach, too bitter, too sad, too angry for his liking. "He didn't like it there very much. Had other places he needed to be.

"Marco!" Ivy admonishes like the big sister she is, and Mario feels his chest burn with pain, the words like thick layer of salt on that still open wound. He feels even worse when Mia lets go of his fingers, a new uncertainty shrouding her features, like she just discovered her favorite character in a Disney movie is a villain after all.

And he is, Mario thinks. He feels like the villain he's being made out to be, Marco's angry eyes on him, Mia shying away from him and Nico slumped in defeat next to Ivy. The worst thing that could possibly happen right this moment does happen though, Marcel and Robin suddenly appearing out of nowhere, Marcel's hand coming to rest on Marco's back.

"You guys ready to go?" Robin asks, keys dangling in his hand

Mario thinks he's ready to disappear now, so completely willing to be literally anywhere but here at this moment, anywhere, be it at the crater of an erupting volcano or the bottom of an ocean or in space without an oxygen mask on. Anywhere where he can't think of how far he and Marco have drifted apart, can't remember that Marco's gay but not with him, can't feel Ivy's pitying eyes on him, and definitely can't see Nico's disappointment written all over his face

"Oh, sorry, hi," Marcel says suddenly and it takes Mario some time to realize he's talking to him. "Didn't see you there," he adds, a genuine smile taking over his face and Mario hates him so much right now, hates that he looks so friendly and nice, hates that he's got his hand on Marco's back, hates that Marco looks so uncomfortable with Mario there.

"He's kinda hard to miss, if we're being honest here," Thomas' voice comes out of nowhere and Mario has never ever been so relieved to see his friend. "What with, you know, looking like red riding hood in a sea of yellow." He takes his time smiling at everyone before he puts an arm around Mario. "Antoine and Thiago are done with the press, bus is about to take off.

"Right," Mario nods, his voice too weak for his liking, but the relief he feels at Thomas' presence has him shaking like a leaf. "I gotta," he mumbles, pointing in the general direction of the bus, avoiding everyone's eyes, but before he can even think about disappearing, Ivy's hand clasps itself around his wrist and before he knows it, he's being pulled into another bone-crushing hug. She squeezes him tight, so tight, and Mario can't help but fold his arms around her, so close to breaking down with all the affection rolling off her in waves.

"Don't be a stranger," she whispers in his ear before sniffing lightly. She's pulling away and pressing another kiss to his temple before she lets go of him completely, and Mario barely has time to leave a kiss in Nico's hair before he's being whisked away by Thomas. His ears are buzzing but he still manages to catch Thomas' words.

"We'll see you at the next one, Reus!

\----

He tries not to think about it. Tries not to remember the anger in Marco's eyes, the tension in his shoulders, Marcel's hand on his back. So, naturally, think about it is all he does for the next two weeks. It keeps him awake at night on most days, imagining all the ways it could've gone differently. Maybe if he'd left before Marco showed up, or before Marcel and Robin appeared, maybe if Mia hadn't told Marco he should have Mario on his team, or if he hadn't left Dortmund in the first place. He doesn't regret his move to Bayern, can't afford to when he loves his current club and teammates so damn much, but sometimes when he's lying awake at night, a million and one thoughts colliding in his mind, he thinks about it, about how maybe if he hadn't left Dortmund, if he hadn't ran away from Marco and all the things he felt for him, things would be different right now, Marco's coming out would be for him and not for some other guy Mario's pretty sure is just leeching off his fame. On nights where it gets real bad, he imagines what his life would be like right now if he'd never met Marco in the first place. He usually lasts under a minute in that particular line of thinking before his chest starts to ache, his breath burning and his lungs contracting like there's not enough air in the world to sustain him.

He only manages to get one night of good sleep - good might be stretching the truth, a few hours is all he actually gets - and only because he passes out from exhaustion when the lack of sleep coupled with the way he's been draining himself at training catches up to him.

Before he knows it, the international break is here and Mario is relieved to be left out of the squad. Jogi decides he isn't needed this time around, allowing him to stay back and rest a little before the end of the season and the start of the World Cup. Mario is perfectly fine with that. For one thing, he's looking forward to doing nothing for a few days, no training or games and no one around to force him out of the house. Him being left out of the squad means that he also doesn't have to face Marco which he's more than thrilled about.

His happiness is however very short-lived as he gets a call from Jogi on the third day of break. It's 6am and Mario barely has time to register his coach's voice before he's informed that Max and André both picked up injuries at training, meaning they're both ruled out of the next game. Which is in three days. It goes without saying that they're expecting him to report to training as soon as possible. Jogi's actually only calling to let him know that he's booked him the first flight out to Köln which is in less than three hours.

Mario scrambles to pack his bags and leave the house on time. He's pretty sure he gets everything he needs, but there's always the possibility he doesn't. There's usually always someone around when he's packing his bags, be it Thiago or Ann, or even Marco when he was still in Dortmund. Always there to make sure he's packed all the essentials. So it's absolutely no fun having to do it by himself, having to wrack his less-than-cooperative brain to think of all the things he should be packing. He suddenly regrets not taking Ann up on her offer to write him a packing list in case of an emergency, all the more so when halfway through the ride to the airport he remembers he didn't pack his favorite hair gel. Screw this, he's not going to have a nervous breakdown over hair gel. He's a multi-millionaire footballer, he can afford to buy the entire gel factory if he wants to, let alone a few packs when he gets to Köln. And worst-case-scenario, he can steal Marco's, after all they both use the same brand.

His heart skips a beat when he remembers. He has to see Marco again. After their disastrous meeting the last time, there's nothing he's looking forward to less. Not even Jogi's crazy training hours. But he'd be a damn liar if he didn't admit that he's missed Marco. So. Much.

He tries not to think about him anymore, tries to drown him out by listening to loud music and focusing on the scenery outside the window. Of course, it does absolutely nothing to help. Thankfully, he's forced to focus on other, more relevant things when he's at the airport, sprinting the entire way to check in on time. Jogi must've lain it thick on the airline because the checkout assistant ushers him over as soon as he spots him and Mario tries not to blush too deeply when all eyes turn to take him in. Most of the people in line smile at him, but he still feels embarrassed enough to meet their eyes only very briefly before he makes his way to the counter. It takes barely two minutes for the assistant to process his papers and send him on his way to the plane.

It's barely a one-hour-flight but he still falls asleep for a while, his growing exhaustion and 6am wake-up call catching up. He's groggy and a little dizzy when he gets to Köln, not having had breakfast yet. He picks up a pretzel from one of the bakeries on his way out, indulges the shy check-out girl when she asks him for a picture, leaves her an extra large tip because he feels like it. The driver waiting for him outside is an old man in his sixties, laugh lines clearly defining his tan skin, graying hair and kind eyes and a strange warmth washes over Mario when the man smiles, and he can't help but smile back, especially when the driver - Viktor - tells him he's a big fan.

Viktor, Mario finds out, is a big talker. Which is more than fine by him, as long as he's not expected to keep up the conversation, and with the way the old man's been going at it for the past twenty minutes, it doesn't seem like it bothers him at all. He tells Mario all about his football-loving grandkids, his past escapades and current struggles. The only piece of useful information he passes on turns out to be that Jogi had to change hotel reservations at the last second because a fire broke out the day before the international break in their usual spot.

According to the schedule Jogi sent him this morning, everyone's meant to be at training right now so he doesn't bother checking the lobby when he gets there, choosing instead to head over to the counter. The receptionist welcomes him with a smile, hands him his keycard a few minutes later and he's on his floor before he knows it, carting his bag along the carpeted hallway.

Last minute reservations, he's learned, always mean that the rooms are not what he's come to get used to. What he doesn't expect, however, is to walk into the room to find Marco sleeping on one of the beds. He nearly trips on his feet when he sees him, makes a choked sound between a gasp and a cry when he takes in his lanky form on the bed, as pale as he's always known him to be, drooling on his pillow and snoring even louder than Mario remembers.

He stands there looking horrified for a second before turning to leave the room, tripping on his shoelaces of all things and knocking nearly everything on the bedside table in the process. It's good to know that he's apparently still reduced to a 5-year-old when Marco's around, even when unconscious. Well, not anymore, Mario can already hear him stirring on the bed as he tries to straighten himself up.

"Jesus, do you always have to make an entrance?"

His voice is thick with sleep, like he's been at it for hours, but Mario knows Marco, knows he's a restless git who wakes up so early that Mario's sleep-loving self can't wrap his head around it, knows that when he naps during the day it's never for longer than thirty minutes, unlike Mario who can wake up at noon and still fit in a 3-hour nap in the afternoon.

"This is my room. Why are you here?"

_Genius, Götze. Really. Very eloquent._

"Correction, this is _our_ room. Since our usual joint caught fire, they've had to room us all here, and they couldn't find enough singles to accommodate all of our fancy asses so only a few were lucky to get their own room," Marco starts to explain as he straightens up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "André and I volunteered to share, but André had to go and tear a muscle, so now I'm stuck with you."

Mario's pretty sure Marco said something important. He also thinks he insulted him at some point but right now he can't focus on anything other than the way Marco's shirt is riding up a little along his left hip, his shorts low enough that a strip of smooth pale skin is peaking and Mario has to physically stop himself from reaching out to touch it. He realizes he sounds perverted, needing to control himself in order not to molest Marco on his bed, but Marco's particular skin tone has always done it for Mario, especially when the contrast with his tattoos is as stark as it is under the bright light of this room.

"I can switch with someone if you want, maybe Mats or Thomas," Mario says in a low voice, trying to gather his thoughts long enough to answer.

"Mats landed a single," Marco argues, shaking his head, getting up and walking over to Mario. "Perks of being a vice-vice-vice-captain. He won't switch no matter what." They're so close now Mario can actually embrace the pervert in him if he wants to, can reach out to touch Marco and run his fingers along his collarbone if he wishes. He doesn't. "And I'm pretty sure Thomas would chop his own arm off before he lets anyone else room with Manu." He's quiet for a moment, a sort of resignation seeming to wash over him. He reaches out tentative fingers, hesitates before hooking two of them in Mario's right sleeve and Mario feels himself hold in his breath. "Besides," Marco stops for a second, looks at Mario like he's not sure he wants to say what he's going to say next. He hesitates for a second longer before he pulls Mario over to him and closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Mario's shorter frame. "I missed you," he whispers in Mario's ear before burying his face in his neck and Mario feels his heart jump to his throat, can't really understand what's happening right now, so much so that he can't even get his arms to cooperate and hug Marco back. Instead, he just stands there in the room with Marco's arms around him, just breathing him in, wondering if this is really happening right now or if this is some really, really, _really_ vivid hallucination he's having, complete with familiar smells and an overwhelming warmth. Mario barely manages to get his hands to cooperate enough to reach for Marco's waist before his friend pulls away, barely meeting his eyes before he rushes off to what Mario assumes is the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

\----- 

Mario's frozen to the spot for a long time before he picks up his phone and keycard and practically sprints out of the room. He can't wrap his head around what just happened, can't associate this Marco with the one he saw in the parking lot a few weeks ago, and it confuses him more than anything. He stands in the hallway for a second, contemplating what to do before he dials the number he knows by heart.

"Mario?"

"Which room is yours?"

"What-"

"Mülli, which room?" He interrupts before Thomas can get another word in.

"708."

Mario looks at the number engraved on his own room door. 709. _Really?_

"Open the door," he practically barks, moving towards the door to the left of his room and shoving Thomas out of the way the minute he appears in the doorway, throwing himself on one of the beds and groaning exasperatedly in the sheets.

"What are yo-"

"Why is Marco my roommate?" Mario jumps in, straightening up and turning to look at a confused Thomas who still has his phone pressed to his ear.

"Good morning to you too," Thomas lets out finally, gathering his thoughts and throwing his phone on the other bed before seating himself to Mario's right, pushing himself higher on the mattress until his back hits the wall, his feet dangling off the side.

"Good morning, Mülli," Mario humors with an annoyed tone, pushing himself higher until he's mirroring Thomas' position. Of course, his short legs mean that his feet are nowhere near dangling off the mattress, but rather coming up to Thomas' calves. "Why is Marco my roommate?" He asks again, his voice small, making him sound like a scared child. "And aren't you supposed to be at training?"

"Christoph asked that Volland room with him, so the only option left for you was Marco," Thomas reasons, and Mario can feel his gaze on him, even as he stares at his hands in his lap. "And Jogi decided to push training back a few hours since neither you nor Kevin were here yet. Wants the whole team there before he sets up the play for the friendly against Austria in a few days."

"Then you switch rooms with me," Mario nearly pleads. "Come on, Mülli, be a good friend and don't force me to stay with Marco during this week."

"No can do," Thomas shakes his head vehemently. "Manu and Nina are going through a rough patch and he need-"

"I miss you too," Thomas is interrupted by Manu who comes out of the bathroom with the phone pressed to his ear, his already wide smile growing bigger when he spots Mario. He waves lightly at him as he picks up a keycard off the bedside table, waves at both his friends before he starts making his way out of the room, still cooing on the phone. "I can't wait to see you either, I just really mis..."

Mario can't catch the end of his sentence as he's already shut the door to the room, so he only turns to Thomas with his eyebrows raised.

"Yes, clearly, he looks devastated," Mario nods exaggeratedly and Thomas smiles guiltily.

"Alright fine, Marco begged me not to switch with you if you asked," he admits eventually and Mario chokes a little.

"What?!"

"Says he misses you," Thomas continues casually, like he didn't just knock Mario's world off its axis. "Told me he wants to use this break to see if you guys can ever be the way you were before or if there really is no point in trying to save whatever it is that you guys were."

"We haven't been friends in years," Mario objects, trying to wrap his head around all the information thrown at him. Is Marco really that desperate to have Mario in his life again?

"So maybe it's about time you were again."

"Mülli," Mario sighs, closing his eyes and trying to fight it a little bit longer, but he knows it's useless. Marco wants to try again and Mario will never willingly walk out on him. At least not again. He's learned from his past mistakes. No matter how much he tries to run from it, he'll fight tooth and nail to have him in his life in any capacity if that's what Marco wants. "You of all people know why this is a bad idea. You know how I feel about him."

"Not really," Thomas argues but his voice holds no accusations, only a yearning to understand. "You never really told me. I've only had to guess it was more than you let on since you literally shut down anytime he's mentioned. And of course, given all those Marco doppelgangers you keep picking up every few weeks."

"I loved him," Mario admits, his voice barely above a whisper, something cathartic about finally saying it out loud, low as his voice actually is. "Maybe even still do. But I didn't know he was gay, didn't know that there was any chance he'd ever reciprocate."

"Aren't all gay guys supposed to have like super gaydars?" Thomas asks, raising his eyebrows, and Mario chuckles in relief when he doesn't make a big deal of what he's just been told.

"We're also supposed to have a penchant for lip gloss and wearing women's underwear, which, I'm not judging anyone who enjoys dressing in that, but no thank you."

"Ah, I see," Thomas nods. "I'm afraid I've caught the stereotype bug. Anyway, you say you didn't know he was gay before, but you do now."

"And he's got Marcel now," Mario shrugs sadly. "He looks happy and relieved and just _happy_.I don't think I've ever seen him like that. At least not in a while. How can I take that away from him?"

"For what it's worth, I think you should tell him how you feel," Thomas nudges his shoulder until he looks at him. "You might be surprised by his answer. And even if you don't tell him, I think you should take him up on his offer to try and rebuild your friendship. Because despite everything, I've never seen you as happy as you are when you and Marco are on good terms. I know you have me and Thiago and David, that we're your best friends,  that you love us. I don't doubt that. Only you're different when Marco's around. You act different around him. But if you want me to switch rooms, then we'll do that. I love Marco but you're my priority here. So whatever you want me to do I'll do."

Mario never doubted how good a person Thomas is. How could he when the boy has literally never harmed anyone in his entire life. But right now, sitting in a tiny hotel room, shoulder to shoulder with Thomas telling him he's a priority in his life, Mario's love for his friend increases tenfold.

"You're just a really good person, aren't you?" He blurts out before he can stop himself and Thomas laughs bashfully.

"I try," he shrugs, waving his hand in the air like it's all very natural. "So?" He asks after a moment. "What will it be?"

"I'll stay with Marco," Mario concedes, an excited kind of nervousness settling in his stomach. "But I reserve the right to change my mind."

"Dude, you're like one room away," Thomas says. "All you have to do is bang on the wall a little too hard and I'll come running."

"What if I'm banging on the wall for a different reason?"

"Then our friendship will never be the same."

\-----

He delays going back to his room as long as possible, stays with Thomas on his bed for a long while skyping with both Fabian and Felix because he hasn't seen his brothers in a while. He only agrees to go back to the room when Thomas shoves him out fifteen minutes before they have to be in the lobby, promising he'll go with him to pack Mario's duffel. The panicking turns out unnecessary because Marco's not even in the room when he makes it. 

He is, however on the bus waiting for them, sitting by the window somewhere in the middle with a free seat next to him. Mario thinks about sitting next to him, really tries to get on board with the plan and stop stressing about it so much, especially when Marco's eyes find his own, and for some reason Mario knows the seat's saved for him. But it's been so long since he and Marco have been friend, so long since Mario's allowed himself to embrace the need to have the other man in his life, so long that his first instinct is still to shy away from him, still actively trying to avoid him. So he looks away as he passes his row of seats, tries not to concentrate on the sad look that crosses Marco's features for barely a second when he realizes things haven't really changed. In the end he takes the seat right behind him, leaning his head against the window and trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on anything other than the tiny part of Marco's reflection he can see in it.

\-----

"Alright boys, our friendly against Austria is in three days," Jogi starts when they're all finally gathered on the pitch around him. "And I want you to treat it like it's the final of the World Cup. We've got very few games left before the group stages so we've got to be in top form. We have to show the world that we're not willing to give our title away."

"We're going to run our usual play," Schneider speaks up next to Jogi, planning board in hand. "There's no time for testing anymore, we've got to focus on strengthening our formation and making sure there are no gaps or holes anywhere. Reus, Götze and Müller will be alternating up front so I want the three of you together for the next three days. Especially Reus and Götze since you're going to be the center forward for this next game, Mario," he explains, meeting Mario's eyes. "You're going to be the link between them and I want to make sure you and Marco establish the connection you've always had. It's easier when you've been training with Müller the entire season so I want you and Reus shadowing each other the entire break."

_Great. How did he think he was going to ever avoid Marco again?_

Schneider and Jogi continue discussing more plays and groupings after that, but for the most part, Mario tunes them out, trying very hard not to look at Marco when he can feel his eyes on him.

Jogi finally orders them to pair up and start stretching, and Mario sees Marco walk up to him slowly, as if he's weighing his steps, but the smile he gives him is so painfully familiar, crooked and warm and full of dimples that Mario can't help it when he feels the corners of his own mouth quirk up in return.

"Stretch with me?" Marco asks lightly when Mario's in hearing distance, his voice low and slightly unsure like Mario might say no. And if he's to admit it to himself, Mario wants to say no, wants to save himself the heartache that will surely ensue by trying to be friends with Marco again. But it's Marco, and he's looking at him with warm, hopeful eyes and Mario's missed him more than he can say. So he nods lightly, unable to say anything for the moment.

His skin prickles where Marco's fingers wrap themselves up over his  biceps, even through all the layers, holding on as Mario stretches his arms and wraps his own fingers around Marco's biceps, their arms tangling together so familiarly, their faces inches apart.

They stare at each other for a long moment, like they're studying one another and Mario think he doesn't really need to do that, doesn't need to look at Marco like he's just discovering him now because he knows him, knows every freckle and wrinkle and blemish by heart, knows the way he squints his left eye a little more than his right one when the sun shines bright in the sky, knows how his mouth quirks up a little higher on the right side when he smiles.

"It's good to know your skin in still so flawlessly tan after all this time," Marco remarks offhandedly and Mario bursts out laughing, caught off-guard, too busy staring at Marco.

"And I see you're just as ghostly pale as ever," Mario throws back when he's calmed down, and just like that, every wall, fence or obstacle that ever separated them comes crashing down like it was never there in the first place, like all those years they were apart and all those training sessions they spent avoiding one another don't matter. Because they both remember it, having this exact conversation while doing the same exercise in one of their first ever training sessions when Marco joined Dortmund.

"Admit it," Marco says as he chuckles, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly, "you have a thing for ghostly pale."

He remembers what his answer the first time around was. Remembers how he blushed and stumbled on his words until he came up with something that wouldn't incriminate him, that wouldn't make his glaringly obvious feelings for Marco more, well, obvious.

_I do not! Have you even seen Ann_

"Maybe," he replies casually, because it's different this time. He's different, Marco's different, everything is different. And he can tell this is definitely not the answer Marco's expecting from the way his eyes widen for a split second, his trademark grin disappearing and his grip on Mario's arms tightening for a moment.

"AND CHANGE!" Mario hears Schneider yelling in the distance and he untangles himself from a slightly blushing Marco to move to another exercise, holding his hands out to take Marco's foot, helping him stretch his leg as wide as he can.

Marco looks like he's been hit on the head with an exceptionally large broom for nearly the entire warm-up,  barely speaking as he and Mario move from one exercise to another. It isn't until Thomas and Jérôme join them that he starts to loosen up, laughing at Thomas' inherit two left feet and soaking up his friends' good mood.

He's a lot more comfortable around Mario by the time they start the practice match, ruffling his hair and patting his back affectionately any chance he gets.

It takes them some time to start finding each other on the pitch again. It's mostly Mario struggling, because everytime he gets the ball near the goal he thinks about where Antoine would be in this scenario, or where Thiago would be waiting to receive the pass, and when he eventually sends the ball flying in that direction, Marco would be somewhere else, the ball landing at a defender's feet or outside the pitch entirely.

"Götze, you're thinking too much about this," Jogi yells from the sidelines. "You know how to do this, you know where Reus is going to be, so let the ball guide you!"

That's all it takes, really, for Mario to remember. He looks at Marco, standing a little further up, his hands on his waist as he breathes heavily and waits for the keeper to pass the ball. The reason he's getting it all wrong is because he's not thinking about this the right way. Marco's not Antoine or Thiago. Marco's Mario. Marco would always do what Mario would do in his place and vice-versa. That's why their connection was always so easy, because they only had to think about what they would do to know where the other would be. So it takes him three more passes, all going in the right direction but interrupted by defenders before he gets it right on the fourth one. He sends a perfect pass flying and it lands right where it should at Marco's waiting feet before his friend shoots it seamlessly, sending it sailing past Marc-André. And it's just training, but they were always a little too exuberant about their celebrations no matter the context, so Marco sprints his way and knocks him to the ground before he can think twice about it, landing on top of him in a tangle of limbs and loud laughter, Mats and Mesut and Basti joining them on the ground. They score twice more in training, Marco converting a free kick in perfect form, and then Mario dribbling past three defenders to shoot the ball into the net from an impressive angle, with Mülli and Volland netting for the other team.

Mario thinks their first night in the same room since forever will be awkward, but he comes to find it's anything but. All he has to do when he's tucked into his own bed, Marco laying on his side opposite him on the other bed, is complain about Mats still acting like he just got his nails done anytime he's anywhere near dirt - which is _a lot_ , they play football for fuck's sake - and Marco bursts out laughing, a thousand and one memories rolling off his tongue.

The next morning is just as easy, both maneuvering their way around the room and each other like they've lived together forever, and Mario's heart skips a beat when he thinks about how domestic all of this is, Marco piling up some muffins on a plate when they're downstairs for breakfast, placing the delicious treats in front of Mario when they're seated, stealing some eggs off his plate.

They're called for a press conference with Jogi in the afternoon. They sidestep a few questions about Marco's sexuality, but Mario can't stop his outburst when one reporter asks Marco how he's "settling into the team given his current situation."

"Okay, first of all, calling it his 'current situation' does not mean we don't all know you're talking about him being gay," Mario fumes, unable to stop himself. "Second, it's not his current situation, it's who he is. And are you really asking a guy who's been on this team for the past six years how he's settling in?" He asks disbelievingly, staring at the reporter. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Me?" The reporter asks, surprised.

"Yes, you," Mario confirms. "How long have you been a sports reporter?"

"About eight years."

"So how would you like it if someone came and asked you if you're buckling well under the pressure eight years after you've established yourself as a credible reporter because of something about yourself that's completely irrelevant to your job? Or maybe one should question your credibility, given the nature of the questions you're throwing at us," Mario mutters, raising his eyebrows in an annoyed manner. "I know this question's directed at Marco but I'm going to answer it. He's not settling in at all because he's already a part of the team, no questions asked. He just happened to reveal a new part of himself to all of us recently, but it has absolutely nothing to do with anyone other than him and his partner, so it doesn't compromise our understanding on the pitch in any way. Quite the opposite in fact. And let me just reiterate what Thomas has already stated previously, that we're all really proud of Marco for putting himself out there and being brave enough to reveal his true self. I, for one, hope more people are brave enough to follow in his footsteps in the future."

And when Marco jogs up to him after the press conference, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and whispering a 'thank you' before pressing his lips to his cheek, Mario feels himself grow a little warmer, his heart hammering in his chest as he wonders if he'll ever be as brave as Marco.

\-----

They barely stay apart after that, spending the rest of the day holed up in Thomas' room with Manu, Mats and Ilkay, and while Thomas and Marco argue about every little thing, Mario can't concentrate on anything other than the way Marco feels next to him as they sit side by side on Manu's bed, pressed together from shoulder to knee like some weirdly conjoined twins.

It's so easy to go back to the way they were years ago, Mario finds, because nothing has changed, really, except maybe Mario's feelings for Marco. They've multiplied, if anything, by several hundred times, but that only makes it easier to want to spend time with him, to find everything he says funny and everything he does endearing.

It's not a good idea to allow himself to get this close to him again, Mario knows, not when they're going their separate ways in a few days, not when Marco has someone else, not when Mario doesn't have any plans to come out in the immediate future. But, Mario never liked to take the easy way out, especially when that meant walking out on Marco again. So he doesn't.

Mario's deep in conversation with Marco in the tunnel before the Germany-Austria friendly when he feels someone wrap their arms around him from the back with such force it nearly knocks the breath out of him and he doesn't have to look to know it's David. He giggles madly instead, turning in his friend's arms to return his hug, and he imagines it maybe, but Marco's smile falters for a split second, something flashing in his eyes, and Mario thinks it reminds him of the way he must look when he sees Marco with anyone else. He decides it's probably just him seeing what he wants to see though, basking in all the attention David showers him with instead, barking out a laugh when David attacks an unsuspecting Marco with a hug too.

The game is not an easy one but Germany do come out on top, Mario, Marco and Thomas' combined attack proving too hard for the Austrian defense. David does convert a free kick in outstanding fashion, as he always does, and he ends up ribbing Manu about it after the game, but it's not enough to level Germany's three goals, Mario netting twice thanks to assists from both Marco and Thomas, and Jérôme knocking in an impressive header from a corner shot.

David sneaks into their hotel that night, bright smile on bottle of tequila in tow. Mario texts Thomas to meet them in his and Marco's room and they end up doing shots late into the night, drunk and laughing and happy, David and Marco getting along just as well as Mario always knew they would. Manu passes out on Marco's bed at one point, forcing Mario, Marco, Thomas and David to congregate on Mario's tiny bed, and Mario's drunk, much drunker than he's been before and way too drunk for national duty, but not nearly drunk enough not to notice the way Marco's hand casually winds up on his thigh, fingers splayed across his leg, half on his shorts and half on his skin.

He thinks they Facetime Thiago at one point, is not really sure because Thomas somehow finds more alcohol by then, but he vaguely remembers a friendly smile on a tan face and thick accented German on a phone.

When he wakes up the next morning with a crippling headache and a bad taste in his mouth, it takes him some time to take in his surrounding, but when he does, he sobers up in remarkable fashion, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest and his ears buzzing.

Thomas is on Marco's bed, half on top of Manu, and David is snoring somewhere on the floor. Marco's head, however, is resting in Mario's lap, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, breath fanning lightly across his stomach.

He wants to get up, needs to take something to soothe his headache and splash some water on his face, but Marco's nearly on top of him, his arms holding on to him like he might hurt if he lets go and Mario can't go now, not when he might never get the chance to be with Marco this way again. So he delicately unwraps Marco's arms, moves them around until they're lying on the same level, laughing lightly at Marco's protests in his sleep and the way he latches on to Mario again the minute they're apart. He wraps his arms around his waist again and buries his face in Mario's chest, hiking one leg over him, and it's so easy for Mario to fall back asleep when he threads his fingers in Marco's hair, Marco's fingers tickling his back and allowing slumber to take over him despite his earlier more than alert state.

When he wakes up the next time, Marco, Manu, Thomas and David are nowhere to be found, and Mario lies on his bed for a long time, eyes wide open and forehead creased with worry, wondering if he's dreamed it all, if he didn't wake up in Marco's arms and didn't fall back asleep to his hand buried in his hair.

When he forces himself out of bed and finds the lobby some time later, Marco's on the phone with his back to him, Thomas and Manu nowhere to be found. He's close enough to hear him, close enough to clearly make out Marco's words when he tells the person on the other end of the line he misses him, that he wishes he was here right now, and Mario tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, tries to stand tall against his breaking heart and keep a straight face. He pretends he doesn't see Marco instead, walks by his couch like he's not there and makes his way to the dining hall, plopping himself onto an empty chair near Thomas, trying to muster a smile when his friend looks at him.

"How was your night?" Thomas asks as he shovels some food in his mouth, and Mario pales a little, about to shrug it off when he notices Marco walking into the hall, making a beeline for their table. He's not ready to face him yet so he gets up hurriedly.

"Fine," he mutters at Thomas as he throws his phone on the table. "I'm just gonna get some breakfast," he says under his breath, nearly sprinting towards the buffet table, grabbing a plate and absentmindedly stacking some baked goods on it. He scoops some eggs out of habit and starts heading back to the table just as Marco makes his way to the buffet.

He takes a seat between Manu and Thomas, prays that neither will get up before Marco's back. They don't, and Marco plops himself in the seat opposite Mario instead, placing a plate full of breakfast muffins between them, trying to catch his gaze.

"I was waiting for you in the lobby," Marco says eventually, seemingly unable to stand the silence for longer, and Mario can feel Thomas' worried eyes on him.

"You were?" Mario tries, struggling to keep a straight voice. It's still weaker than he wants it to be, but he's doing an okay job, considering. They probably all think he's too hungover to function properly anyway, which he is, but not enough for Marco's earlier phone call not to sting.

"Yes," Marco says, straining a little, his voice slightly annoyed as he keep his eyes on Mario.

"Didn't see you," Mario shrugs like it's not a big deal, like his heart didn't skip several hundred beats when he saw Marco in the lobby, like it didn't shatter into several hundred pieces when he realized Marco was on the phone with Marcel.

They don't speak after that, the clatter of utensils against porcelain the only thing heard, Marco's eyes on Mario the entire time, Thomas' worried gaze flicking between the two of them. Mario doesn't take any of Marco's offered muffins.

\-----

They have the day off, but Mario can't think about spending time with Marco right now, so he goes for a walk when they're done. He calls David when he finds himself near his hotel, and they spend the entire day together. They grab lunch and then find an amusement park nearby where they stay most of the afternoon, and it's easy to forget when he's with David, to not think about Marco and his heart and all the things he makes him feel, to focus instead on David's laughter and the way his head feels dizzy when he swirls endlessly in little plastic spaceships. David posts a selfie of them in front of a beat up old roller-coaster, smiles wide and eyes shining in the sun, and Mario tries not to care that Marco likes the picture less than five minutes later, tries not to think about the three missed calls he has from him.

  
He ends up going to David's hotel after that, only calls himself a cab when he can barely keep his eyes open anymore.  
  
He finds Marco and Thomas in the lobby with Mats, barely waves at them before he rushes to his room, burying himself under his blankets before Marco can make it there. He pretends to be fast asleep when he hears him come in about twenty minutes later, pretends he doesn't feel Marco sit on the edge of his mattress, pretends he doesn't hear him whisper his name or feel him brush his hair off his forehead lightly before getting up and going to the bathroom.

\-----

  
The next day, Mario feels strong enough to pretend everything is okay, strong enough to go back to the easy friendship Marco and he have been pretending to have the past few days, strong enough to maintain the act until the end of the break a few days later.  
  
\-----  
  
Mario's relieved to go back to Munich, is happy to go back to a place where he doesn't have to pretend that he and the person he's in love with are friends, where he doesn't have to put on a blank mask and act as if knowing that this person has someone else doesn't cut him deep inside.

Their friendship is a farce anyway, Mario thinks, because Marco's trying way too hard and Mario's not trying hard enough, so he's looking forward to going back to the way things were, to pushing Marco to the back of his thoughts and trying to forget how much he loves him, to having his life revolve around Thomas and Thiago and David again, and even Ann-Kathrin occasionally. Just not Marco.

  
Except that Marco doesn't get the memo, it seems. He texts him a few hours after they separate to let him know he's made it to Dortmund, and then proceeds to call him the next three days. Mario doesn't answer his calls though, doesn't understand what changed now, why Marco's trying so hard to be his friend again. He remembers his talk with Thomas, about how Marco wants to make things right again, but it's obvious by now that Mario's not on the same page, so it doesn't make sense that he's still pushing it the way he is. And he's worried. Because his resolve is breaking and if he can't keep away from Marco, then he can't exactly protect his heart, can he? Not when Marco's basically taken up all the space in there, has settled in his heart and stretched his limbs so wide that there's not really room for anyone else.  
  
News about him and Ann officially breaking up spreads on the fourth day he's back in Munich. Ann's been seeing Leo and tabloids have been less than kind about it, jumping to all kinds of conclusions ranging from Mario's violent streaks to Ann's two-timing ways. So Mario asks Volker to call Bild and leave them one of those generic comments about how they're still great friends despite being exes. And it's not entirely a lie, really, because they are great friends, and no one has to know that they were never together to begin with.  
  
When Mario goes back home after training that afternoon, he fishes his phone out of his pocket to find six missed calls from Marco. He's standing in the middle of his living room contemplating what to do about it when his phone starts vibrating in his hand, ringtone echoing against the walls and Marco's dimples on full display on the screen. Mario takes a deep breath before he swipes the yes button on his screen.  
  
"Hey," he says when he presses the phone to his ear, seating himself on the couch.  
  
"Where have you been, man?" Marco asks and Mario feels himself grow warm at his voice. He's missed him even if he doesn't like to admit it. "I've been trying to reach you for the past four days." His voice sounds too strained, too worried, and Mario kind of hates himself for it.  
  
"Yeah, I know," Mario mutters, finds a thread on his training shorts and starts twisting it around his fingers. "Sorry, I've been trying to settle back and then Kloppo had us train twice today..."  
  
"No, it's not a big deal," Marco backtracks, but he doesn't sound as casual as he's trying to make it out to be. "I was just... I saw- um, you and Ann broke up?"  
  
"Yeah," Mario says awkwardly, the thought of having to lie to Marco not something he likes very much. "A while ago. We're on good terms though, but I don't want the rumors to start getting to her, you know, because one day I'm sterile and the next day she's a whore so I thought it was finally time to clear the air."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Marco asks hurriedly, and Mario gets the impression he speaks before he actually thinks about it.  
  
"I don't know, Marco," Mario answers, so exhausted all of a sudden. Why does everything have to be so complicated? Why can't he just tell Marco he loves him and then they can be together? "You didn't tell me about you and Marcel either," he says instead, his voice more accusing than anything. "We haven't been friends in a long time."  
  
Mario doesn't mean for it to come out but it does and for a long moment, they're both quiet on the phone, except for their shallow breathing. Mario feels his chest aching, gets ready for Marco's rebuff, waits for him to hang up or yell or tell him to fuck off.  
  
"You're right," he says instead, sounding so defeated Mario wants nothing but to be there with him right now. "We haven't, and it's my fault. I pushed you away when you moved to Munich-"  
  
"No, Marco," Mario interrupts, sighing tiredly. He just wants to lie down. So he does. "I didn't exactly make it hard for you to keep me away, so it's not on you alone."  
  
"But I want to try again," Marco admits. "It sounds weird and pathetic because we were friends for a short period of time in the grand scheme of things, but I do miss you. I was always able to tell you everything and always completely at ease and true to myself around you," Marco says. "I miss that."  
  
_You never told me you were gay._  
  
"I miss that too," Mario concedes and he can't stop himself from saying it back if he tries. Because he does, more than anything.  
  
"It sounds ridiculous, I know," Marco hesitates on the other end of the line. "But maybe we can try to go back to the way things were."  
  
_I don't want to. It would hurt too much._  
  
"Sure."  
  
\-----  
  
That's all it takes, really, for Mario to truly make an effort. Things starts getting back on track easily, their texts and phone calls and Skype sessions a lot more frequent and a lot more mutual, sometimes several times a day. They talk about everything and anything like they used to, just idle conversation and Mario knows why he personally does this, why he's always done it. Aside from the fact that he truly enjoys his and Marco's ability to talk endlessly about trivial things as well as important ones, it's always an excuse to talk to Marco for as long as possible, and he wants to kick himself for it, because he's falling back into old patterns faster than he ever thought possible, old feelings burning strong and threatening to take over until Marco's the only thing on Mario's mind all the time, the only thing he can see, feel, smell at any given moment. The only thing he still can't do is taste Marco, because he's never allowed himself to, never allowed his lips to get too close to Marco for fear of claiming what was never and never will be his.

He feels an overwhelming wave of panic take over him one morning when he wakes up to Marco's soft snores. He scrambles around the room for a moment, the voice so clear and so close and so familiar as it echoes around the walls, sagging back on the bed when he realizes the noise is coming from his laptop on the nightstand, half of Marco's slumbering face filling the screen, looking more at peace than Mario ever remembers, and he can see the sliver of thin sheets wrapped around his naked chest, dark tattoos swirling deliciously against his pale skin as he rests his head on his arm.

Mario stares at his screen for a long time, a swirl of emotions enveloping him, an overwhelming feeling of love mixed with an insurmountable rush of sadness. He's been staring for so long that Marco's starting to blur in front of him when he notices it. On his left wrist, in tiny script hidden among the overwhelming designs on Marco's arm, is a minuscule "19," so tiny that Mario has to blink several times to make sure he's not seeing things, that it's not a blemish on his screen or pillow marks on Marco's arm. He can tell that it's not a tattoo that's meant to be seen, not unless one's been staring at Marco's wrist for too long the way Mario's been doing, the size and simplicity of the design suggesting a more personal nature to it.  
  
Mario feels his heart beating so loud and so fast in his chest, and he starts searching around the patch of skin frantically looking for other telltale numbers, a 13 for Thomas or a 17 for Pierre, maybe even a 5 or a 15 for Mats. But he finds none, only the proud 19 remaining there, standing tall even when dwarfed by a million other tattoos, and Mario wracks his brain trying to remember why that number would mean something to Marco, why he would have it tattooed on his skin forever, maybe someone's birthday or an anniversary, a lucky number perhaps, any excuse not to associate it with the number Mario's been wearing on his back for the past six years.  
  
When he doesn't find any, he feels a fleeting surge of hope traveling through his body, rapidly threatening to shake its fleeting status off and take over him entirely. So he frantically shuts his laptop, hurls himself out of bed and into the shower, allowing the freezing water to beat on his skin hard and fast until he can rid his thoughts of ashen hair and crooked smiles and hearts worn on sleeves. He manages none of that though, emerging from the shower with a newfound energy, an excitement and happiness threatening to take over entirely, and from that moment on, the first leg of the Champions League semi-final, a leg that will see Bayern face Dortmund at the Allianz Arena is everything Mario can think about, and pretty much the only thing he can look forward to.

\-----

He's on the phone with Marco pretty much all day everyday for the next two weeks, so much so that Thiago and David start to tease him about it at first, before they get sick of it and complain that Mario's always too busy for them, while Thomas just shoots him a knowing smirk any time he walks by him to find him with his phone pressed to his ear and a giddy smile on his face.

  
Mario wants to feel bad about it, really wants to hate himself for preferring to stay in and Skype with Marco rather than go out, for keeping his phone glued to his fingers at all times when Thiago and David actually manage to drag him out of the house, for holing himself in his room to talk to Marco on some nights, pretending to shower as his friends make dinner in his kitchen. But he really can't bring himself to do that, not when he feels a wave of bliss traveling through his body anytime Marco laughs in his ear, not when the only thing he looks forward to anytime he's upset is hearing Marco's voice, and certainly not when he spends two hours tossing and turning in bed every night, those two tiny digits haunting his mind, a 1 and a 9 etched onto Marco's skin forever.  
  
It even shows in the way he plays, his confidence reaching new heights on the pitch knowing that Marco's watching him somewhere in Dortmund, easily dribbling through defenders and sending outstanding passes flying towards his awaiting teammates. He should be ashamed to admit how much he looks forward to Marco's calls after his games, he thinks, praise and admiration pouring out of his best friend's mouth like a silky stream that somehow travels through the phone and wraps itself around Mario's bones, enveloping him in a sort of tingling warmth that he can't explain, like a drug that he never wants to quit.  
  
Before he knows it, it's time for the Champion's League semi-final and Mario can't stop himself from nearly throwing his weight at Marco when he spots him in the tunnel. He was supposed to see Marco in the morning before the game but there was a change of plans and the Dortmund crew ended up arriving around noon, with barely any time left to train before the actual game. So Marco had to regretfully cancel on Mario and stick with his team, and no matter how many times Mario told him over the phone it was okay, that they'd see each other during the game, Marco's voice never really perked up. Until now, that is, Marco's laughter echoing in the tunnel as he and Mario hold each other like they haven't seen one another in years.  
  
"YOU!"  
  
Mario and Marco jump apart, both startled out of the little bubble they've created for themselves in the middle of the busy tunnel, only to find Thiago standing to their right with a laughing David, Thiago's face pulled into such a serious look that it scares Mario for a second.  
  
"You," he repeats, his voice lower but with just as much fervor, stepping closer to Marco with his index finger pointed at the boy who raises his eyebrows in return. "You're the reason I haven't properly seen this grinning idiot in weeks," he continues, edging closer and Mario relaxes, a guilty smile taking over his face as his eyes meet Marco's green ones again. "Please stop hogging him on the phone so much, I miss hiiiim," he goes on and his voice takes such a whiny tone as he wraps his arms around Mario that both Marco and David burst out laughing, Mario blushing furiously with all the attention.  
  
"I can try, but I can't promise I'll be successful," Marco concedes, looking at Mario with something in his eyes, something Mario can't quite put his finger on.  
  
"Nice to see you, man," Thiago says, smiling good-naturedly as he lets go of Mario and moves over to hug Marco briefly, followed by David.  
  
"Good luck out there," David tells Marco.  
  
"But not too much luck, otherwise I might just own your ass," Marco replies.  
  
"Not in that yellow you won't," David shoots back with a wink before following Thiago to talk to Shinji.  
  
Marco chuckles lightly before his eyes meet Mario's again and the younger boy feels himself shiver under his gaze. To say he's missed Marco is an understatement.  
  
"So, I was thinking," Marco starts after a minute, "since we didn't get to see each other earlier, maybe we can go out after the game."  
  
"Are you sure you want to go out with your opponent who's just whipped your ass?" Mario teases, his heart soaring in his chest at the thought of finally spending the night out in Munich with Marco.  
  
When he'd signed on to play for Bayern, Mario did it in part to run away from his feelings for Marco. But there was a part of him, a tiny part he tried to silence, that always hoped it wouldn't work. That Marco would remain his friend even as he was gone, that they would still talk all the time and see each other as much as their schedules would allow, that they'd discover parts of Munich together when Marco came to visit, that the city would hold a special meaning to them after a while. That didn't happen, but Marco's suggestion to meet after the game reawakens all that hope and those urges in Mario, the thought of discovering Munich through Marco's eyes filling him with excitement.  
  
"First of all, if anyone's ass is going to get whipped, it's yours," Marco says matter-of-factly. "But take comfort in the fact that you'll still have the return game to maybe get the score a little more even. You're still going down though."  
  
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Mario dismisses with a wave of his hand, the smile never leaving his face. "What did you have in mind for after?"  
  
"I don't know, you're the Munich resident," Marco shrugs. "What's good to do here? I thought maybe you and your little crew can take us out and show us what's so great about Munich that you had to leave me for it."  
  
And okay, wow, this hits way too close to home because Marco might actually be aware that the biggest reason Mario left Dortmund is him. But he can also just be saying this in good humor, like most things Marco says. Either way, Mario can't think about that because Marco just mentioned Mario's friends which means this outing is already looking a lot more crowded than Mario anticipated. And there's also one more little detail that's rubbing Mario the wrong way.  
  
"Us?" He asks, feeling himself pale a little even before hearing the answer.  
  
"Robin and Marcel," Marco says if a little carefully, like he somehow knows this is a sore spot. "They're here to watch me play and I can't exactly blow them off and go out with someone else."  
  
If he felt a little pale before, Mario feels himself completely drain of color at the confirmation to his suspicions, the thought of spending the night with Marco and his boyfriend leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn't manage to say anything, only avoids Marco's eyes and looks to the ground with what he know is a deflated look shrouding his features, trying to find an answer that won't make him look like the jealous prick he really is.  
  
He's saved by Thomas who appears out of nowhere to tell them the lines are moving, and Mario has never been more thankful to see Thomas, has never wanted to get away from Marco as bad as in that moment. He meets Marco's eyes for another moment, eyes that now look worried and somehow burdened when they seemed so carefree only seconds before.  
  
Mario's thankful he's at the back of the line, not really wanting anyone standing behind him to witness his momentary distraction. He shakes his head before resolutely looking in front of him as they walk out on the field, trying to push Marco to the back of his mind, the harsh sting of reality washing over him until his whole body hurts, until his heart squeezes in his chest and his palms ache. He's walking mechanically, he realizes, standing in line with his teammates as the UEFA anthem plays on for a minute, before following Thomas to shake hands with the opponent.  
  
Mats pats him on the back affectionately when he gets to him, but Mario can only smile weakly, already dreading the back of the line where Marco stands right before Pierre.  
  
"Good luck," Mario whispers when he reaches him, not meeting his eyes but feeling a painful amount of relief when Marco's hand takes his. He tries to move on to Pierre but Marco's fingers are tight and insistent around his palm, urging him to look up. So he does, and the look he finds in Marco's eyes knocks him sideways, the hurt and anger and longing he finds there confusing him so much more.  
  
He forces his hand out of Marco's anyway and shakes Pierre's quickly before running over to wish his teammates luck. Thiago hugs him a little tighter than usual, like he know something's up.  
  
"You can do it, champ," David says with so much conviction when he comes up to him, pushing their foreheads together and looking at him with such fierceness in his eyes that Mario finally gets his head in the game. It's the goddamn UCL semi-final, there's no time for his pathetic heart to distract him.  
  
He looks around the stands for a moment, and he's happy to find most of the crowd on both sides holding signs that read _#GayForReus,_ the hashtag Marco's supporters have officially adopted since his coming out. _  
_  
He tries to push the fresh reminder of Marco's sexuality out of his mind, somehow content he's getting the support he needs.  
  
The whistles blows before he knows it, and Mario tries not to think about anything other than getting that ball into the net after that.  
  
He nearly gets a chance to a quarter into the game, but the shot is wider than he wants it to be, bouncing off the top post and outside the pitch. Thiago and Thomas manage to find some space too, but Bürki is on them in a flash, deflecting ball after the other when Mats and Erik slack a little. Bayern's defense looks a little more solid towards the beginning, Jérôme and David successfully waving off any attempts to cross them, Manu taking over and flicking away ball after ball when Marco and Pierre's combined speed starts becoming a little too much. Ultimately, it's at the 87th minute that Mats converts a corner into a solid header that sails past Manu. Mario and his teammates fight harder after that, trying to equalize in the few remaining minutes, and Mario's nearly successful in the 92nd minute, finding himself alone in front of Bürki. He hesitates for a moment, trying to find the opening to shoot, but when he does it's too late, Roman close enough that the ball hits the tip of his gloved hand before it rolls off the pitch.

 

The ref blows the final whistle thirty seconds later, with Dortmund declared winners of this round. Mario finds it hard to breathe, knows that he shouldn't have missed that final chance, knows that it's his fault they lost, knows that he was too distracted even when he tried not to be.  
  
His face is closed off, he knows, trying not to break down in the middle of the pitch like his body wants him to, a little numb as Klopp comes up to him to hug him and reassure him that it's okay, and he pushes him away rather quickly, doesn't think he deserves to be held by Klopp like that, doesn't feel he deserves the sense of security and comfort that the father figure's arms always provide.  
  
His teammates come up to him after that, and Mario hates that none of them blame him for the loss, wants them to hate him so he can feel vindicated in his misery. But Manu ruffles his hair affectionately while Boa bumps their heads together, Thiago and Thomas flanking themselves on either side of him, Thomas' arm securely around him as they head towards the Südkurve, and Mario's almost ashamed to look up, with the fans cheering them like they just won the game, Mario aware he doesn't deserve any of it.  
  
He makes his exit rather quickly from the crowd of Bayern players, walking towards the door to the tunnel, and he balks when he finds Marco waiting for him on the pitch, face pale and sweaty and a little too upset for someone who just won an away game in the first leg of a UCL quarter final, and against Bayern no less. His jersey's balled up in his hand, yellow thermal undershirt hugging him tight, and Mario's steps falter for a second, unsure he wants to go to him, but not finding any valid excuse not to.  
  
"Hey," Marco greets in a low voice when Mario's close enough. "Good game."  
  
"Yeah," Mario snorts in an annoyed manner, taking the jersey Marco offers him and pulling his own off before handing it to his former teammate. "Great game, really" he says, his voice a little harsher than he means it to be, but the game along with Marco and Marcel, it's all testing his patience, really, and he wants nothing but to scream right now. He pulls at his hair a little too hard, meets Marco's eyes for the first time since he made it to him, and the affection, the anger, the _pity_ he finds there, it's all too much for Mario. "Thanks for the jersey," he mumbles, walking past Marco, underestimating their proximity and harshly knocking their shoulders on his way towards the tunnel, leaving Marco standing there on the pitch.  
  
He makes it to the locker rooms in record time, stuffs Marco's jersey deep in his duffel before he hops in the shower. He's already getting dressed by the time everyone else has started showering, and he takes the chance to sneak out to his car before anyone can see him, feeling somehow like a fugitive. He only texts Thomas when he's home, in the confines of his bed, knocking back some sleeping pills and tightening the sheets around him as he tries futilely not to think about Marco.  
  
_Gone home to bed. Too tired to go out. Tell Marco I'm sorry.  
_  
\-----  
  
He's dreaming. He has to be. For one thing, he's pretty sure it's the middle of the night. It's also the only way he can explain the fact that he's almost certain this is Marco standing in the middle of his bedroom right now, face illuminated by the light of the moon outside his window, shadows dancing across his features in a way that makes Mario wants to trace the lines with his fingers.  
  
Mario can barely open his eyes but he's pretty sure he'd recognize Marco anywhere, no matter his own state. That still doesn't explain Marco being in his room though, approaching his bed slowly until his leg hits the mattress, threading his hand through Mario's hair and carefully pushing it off his face with delicate but sure fingers. He can't see him anymore, can't get his eyes to open no matter how hard he tries to urge his lids up, and it's slightly ridiculous that the only thing his mind is screaming at him in that moment is that this is his chance to check Marco's arm, to really see if it was just a hallucination or if Marco really does have Mario tucked in somewhere between all his ridiculous tattoos. But his body won't cooperate no matter what, so he gives up and surrenders to the feeling, enjoying the soft strokes Marco leaves against his scalp more than he'd like, Marco's breath fanning his face when he crouches next to the bed, and he can hear Marco when he whispers brokenly against him. Mostly though, he can smell Marco even through his sleep-addled state, the scent of hair gel and fresh grass and something a little musky cutting through all of Mario's senses until it envelops him whole, until Marco is everywhere, until Mario can't feel or think about anything else. Mario feels trapped in his body, too heavy, like an anchor's dragging him slowly towards the bottom, the water submerging him until he can't breathe, until he can't really feel anything, and he stops trying to, lets go and surrenders back to the darkness.  
  
\-----  
  
_What are you keeping from me, Sunny?  
_  
Mario shoots straight up in bed, heart racing and drenched in sweat, looking around frantically for the source, for the person behind that voice, behind that breathy broken whisper, but there's no one there but him.  
  
The faint gray light coming from the window suggests it's early morning, and Mario takes a moment to calm his pacing heart, regulate his breathing and try to remember exactly why those words have been playing on a loop in his head for the past he-doesn't-know-how-many hours. He thinks it might have something to do with a dream he had, something about Marco being in his room, but he can't remember the details, can't think of anything but the overwhelming scent of Marco that lingers, which is weird because he didn't even know olfactory dreams were a thing.  
  
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts - which does nothing but give him a headache, Marco still at the forefront of his mind - and starts walking towards the bathroom to hop in the shower. He finds Marco's discarded jersey from last night on his duffel, stares at it for a long time before he picks it up and throws it in the trash can in a hurry, breathing deeply as he continues his trek to the bathroom.  
  
His shower takes a lot longer than he imagines, half of the time spent staring at the wall with his hands in his hair as he thinks about last night and everything that happened. It hurts to think about Marco, about how Marco's with someone and it's not Mario, it hurts so much he wants to cry, but he doesn't, grabs his half-hard cock instead with a little too much force, his grip tight as he pumps himself harsh and fast under the hot stream, breath fogging up the glass as he leans his forehead against it, and he hates himself even more when he comes with Marco's name on his lips.  
  
He's angry by the time the water turns cold, and he walks out and wraps a towel around his waist before moving towards the trashcan and pulling out the thin yellow shirt, throwing it in the washing bin instead, because damn romanticism, he's not gone enough to put Marco's disgustingly sweaty shirt with his expensive clean clothes.  
  
\-----  
  
It's been a week. An entire week of Mario trying to avoid Marco at all costs. Seven days of him trying desperately to ignore his calls, of trying to blow off his messages. The initial plan called for Mario to erase Marco's messages before he even read them, but that shot to hell pretty quickly, so now he just reads the barrage of _Where are you? Are you okay? Did I do something to upset you?_ before he throws his phone on the nearest piece of furniture every single time and proceeds to walk aimlessly around his apartment trying to keep his mind off Marco's latest text.  
  
It's actually driving him crazy, going to so much trouble to ignore his feelings for Marco, especially that it seems to have the complete opposite desired effect, Mario's affection for the boy doubling with every new _ping_ he hears coming from his phone, his longing for Marco growing and his desire to be with him almost the only thing on Mario's mind any time of the day.  
  
He's jogging lightly at a training session two days before their home game against Werder Bremen, a little farther away from the rest of his teammates, his thoughts a little cluttered with blond hair and green eyes and tattooed arms when Thomas sidles up to him, unnoticed at first. Until he speaks, that is.  
  
"So, Marco called me," he starts casually, and Mario feels irrationally angry all of a sudden. He's sick of this conversation already, he just wants to stop thinking about Marco because this is proving very tedious and Mario's just tired of it all at this point. How the hell did he manage to put his feelings for the boy on hold for over three years and now he can't even manage a week without him?  
  
"Oh yeah?" He asks, and he knows the tone of his voice is unfairly harsh, knows he's about to act like a petulant child, but he still can't keep his emotions at bay. "Good for you."  
  
"Says you're not talking to him," Thomas continues, completely deaf to Mario's more than aggressive tone. "I thought you were going to try a-"  
  
"Just fucking _stop_!"  Mario interrupts and he stops running, turning to look at Thomas, his voice clearly a lot louder than he intends, because he can already see some of their teammates stop and turn to look at them in his peripheral vision. He's acting like a dick, he knows that perfectly well, but this whole Marco deal, it's messing with him and Thomas is not helping at all by trying to push them together when it so obviously is never going to happen. Thomas, for his part, is looking at Mario with a blank look on his face, almost like he's expecting the outburst, and it pisses Mario off even more. "Stop fucking telling me about _Marco_ ," he hisses the name, not really keen on everyone finding out that the breakdown he's teetering on the edge of is because of one of his international teammates. "Stop interfering with my life, stop meddling in things that don't concern you, and stop fucking trying to control everything!"  
  
"Mar," David whispers as he comes to stand next to Thomas, and Mario sobers up, realizes he's yelling at his teammate and best friend in the middle of a training session, and there's really no excuse for it.  
  
"Fuck," Mario mutters, sighing as he looks at the ground for a second, guilt eating him up already at his outburst, Thomas the last one to deserve it. "Mülli, I'm sor-"  
  
"Forget it," Thomas mumbles, keeping his face perfectly blank and turning to leave, but Mario knows Thomas, has calmed down enough to remember that blank Thomas means upset Thomas, knows him well enough to know he shuts down when he's not okay and reverts to keeping his composure instead of allowing his true feelings to show.  
  
"Thomas, please-"  
  
"Götze!" Mario's interrupted again and his frustration is reaching new heights, but he recognizes Klopp's firm voice, his tone speaking of disapproval, so he keeps it to himself, tries to remain as calm as possible as he turns to face the older man. "You're done for the day," Jürgen says, coming up to them. "I don't know what this was about, but this kind of behavior will never be tolerated. If you've got something to say, you can do it respectably, or better yet, keep it to yourself. At least until you're done with training. You should only be focused on how to win the upcoming game anyway. But since you're clearly not, I suggest you take the rest of the day off and clear your head before you come back tomorrow. Because I will have none of this again."  
  
"Coach-"  
  
"Do it before I follow my first instinct and drop you from the next game's squad altogether," Klopp goes on, looking more disappointed than Mario's seen him since he told him he was leaving when they were both still in Dortmund.  
  
Mario looks at his coach for another minute, swallows around the lump in his throat and takes one last look at Thomas' retreating back before starting to make his way towards the changing rooms.  
  
\-----  
  
He's wallowing in his living room a few days later when Thiago comes barging in, face pale and on edge, a hysterical smile gracing his features.  
  
"What's wrong?" Mario asks, straightening up on his couch to take his friend in.  
  
"He came out, he told everyone he's bi- someone else came out," he rambles maniacally, face sweaty and words jumbled, and Mario can hear the excitement in his voice despite his frantic look.  
  
"What?" He asks, a little confused and he thinks maybe he heard him wrong. "Who came out? David came out?"  
  
"No no, not David, of course not, not yet at least," Thiago dismisses, waving a hand in the air and furrowing his brow with an incredulous look on his face, continuing his pacing around Mario's living room. "Sergio, Sergio came out."  
  
Mario's having a really hard time following, and Thiago's manic pacing is giving him a headache. He gets off the couch and plants himself firmly in front of Thiago, wrapping strong hands around his friend's biceps and holding him in his spot.  
  
"Thiago," Mario says slowly, like he's talking to a hyperactive child. Which, really, Thiago in a nutshell. "Stop," he orders and his friend obliges, freezing up and looking at Mario. "Good," Mario smiles, nodding his head in approval. "Now, breathe," he adds and Thiago does as he's told, inhaling deeply and then exhaling, and Mario feels himself breathe a little easier as well as he mimics the boy. "Now tell me what happened. Sergio came out? Canales?"  
  
"Sergio Ramos," Thiago shakes his head, looking a little calmer now, and Mario loosens his grip on him but doesn't let go entirely. "Canales is not gay. At least I don't think," he murmurs more to himself before his eyes meet Mario's again. "But Sergio Ramos is. Bi, that is. He told me he was thinking about coming out when I saw him the last international break, now that he and his girlfriend are broken up, because he wants to live his life the way he deserves to without having to hide. Says he wants to set the right example for his kids. His ex fully supports him apparently, wants her kids to know the truth about their dad as much as he does. So he did an interview for the new FourFourTwo, and now it's everywhere," Thiago finishes, picking up Mario's remote and changing the channel to Sky Sports, and true enough, the Spanish fullback's face is plastered on the screen, a headline that reads _World Cup Winner Reveals He's Bisexual._  
  
Mario doesn't know Sergio Ramos aside from the few times he's faced him on the field, but even he can tell that he looks like an elated man. Paparazzi are hounding him on the screen as he walks out of a building, footage from a few hours ago, and Mario can't help but envy him. He just told the world his deepest, darkest secret, and Mario has never seen anyone look more _relieved_. Maybe that's how he'd look too if he told the world about himself.  
  
"Do you know what this mean?" Thiago murmurs next to him, snapping him out of his line of thinking. Mario turns silently to look at his friend who has a crazy hopeful look on his face. "If this keeps happening, we can do it too, one day. David and I can tell the world about each other. We can stop hiding and start being together in the open if we want to. I can hold my boyfriend's hand in the street if I want to. You, Mario, you can come out too."  
  
Mario turns back to his screen wordlessly, wondering not for the first time if he'll ever really be that brave.  
  
\-----  
  
It's been over a week since Mario's had his meltdown and all but yelled at Thomas, and his friend hasn't really spoken to him outside of forced interaction at training since then. And Mario _hates_ it.  
  
It's bad enough that he's put any and all interactions with Marco on hold, successfully fielding his calls and ignoring his texts, to the detriment of his personal happiness, but it somehow feels so much worse not having Thomas around, even if he didn't need him now more than ever.  
  
He can't remember having spent more than a day without contacting Thomas in some way in the past 4 years. Even when Thomas went on a second honeymoon with Lisa during the last winter break - which fully explains why Lisa's due with their baby boy in early September this year - he still texted him nearly everyday to update him on everything from how he fell asleep in the sun and winded up with sunburns all over to how Lisa kicked his ass at Tennis yet again.  
  
Even Thiago and David have been struggling to cope, Mario and Thomas' - hopefully temporary - rift having messed their group dynamic to the point where the couple now mostly find themselves alone, and as much as they've been enjoying that, David's let Mario know that he's kind of missed having him and Thomas complain about how disgustingly happy they look anytime they start making out.  
  
He's slumped on his couch, bored and lonely and missing both Thomas and Marco when he gets a text from the latter that catches his attention.  
  
_I get why you're not talking to me. Or maybe not get, but I've grown used to it. But do you have any idea why Thomas won't answer my calls?_  
  
The text in itself has plenty enough material to cause the gaping hole in Mario's chest to widen, for the pain he feels anytime he's reminded that Marco still cares no matter how much times passes burning with a searing quality. But it's the last part that catches his attention, the last part that pushes him to get off his couch and grab his car keys.  
  
He races through the mostly empty streets of the city, swirls of greens and concrete mixing out his window, until he finds himself all the way on the other side, in front of an all-too-familiar house.  
  
Thomas' car is parked right next to Lisa's in the driveway, and Mario, in his haste to see his friend, has no patience to park properly and instead leaves his car in the path blocking both their exits.  
  
Thomas flings the door open a few minutes after Mario knocks, looking more surprised than Mario would've liked. Since when did Mario showing up at Thomas' house become unusual?

 

Thomas pulls himself together after a moment, a put-off smirk gracing his features as he towers over Mario.  
  
"Here to yell at me some more?" He asks as Mario tries to come up with something to say and it makes him even more nervous, his fingers fiddling with his keys as he wobbles from one foot to the other.  
  
"Why are you not taking Marco's calls?" Mario finally manages out, and Thomas laughs a little, but there's no humor to it. He crosses his arms to his chest instead and leans on his doorframe.  
  
"It's funny how you essentially tear away at me during training for talking to you about Marco, and yet here you are, a week later, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth after all this time is about Marco."  
  
"I'm sorry," Mario's quick to say, looking at his feet for a moment as he swallows around his lump, hot shame trickling down his spine and through his body. "For yelling at you. I shouldn't have."  
  
Thomas' eyes soften when Mario's meet them, like he can't keep up the annoyed mask he's pulling any longer. It is Thomas after all, the boy wouldn't know how to hold a grudge to save his life.  
  
"I shouldn't have tried to force Marco on you when I knew how hard you were trying to get over him," Thomas concedes, shrugging to himself. "You're right, it's none of my business anyway."  
  
"No, no, Thomas," Mario jumps in quickly, "it is completely your business. I mean, sure, it's not really your decision, but you have the right to get involved in this, I need you to. I need to know that there's someone I trust who's objectively involved in the mess that is my life."  
  
"I wouldn't call myself a very objective third party," Thomas mutters, rubbing his face tiredly, and Mario notices for the first time the hammer in his hand. "As you've pointed out, I've been fielding Marco's calls. I irrationally blame him for our fight."  
  
"Jesus, Thomas, you can barely call it a fight," Mario snorts, smiling a little. "You can't take me seriously every time I have a meltdown at training. Remember when I nearly cried because David stepped on my new shoes?"  
  
"Oh god," Thomas laughs, clearly remembering the incident. "You'd been there for less than three months and had David actually worried you'd ask to be transferred the way you were going at it. He wouldn't believe me when I told him you'd forget about it twenty minutes later."  
  
"He actually bought me new ones, which was quite ridiculous, he knows I get them for free from my endorsement deal," Mario joins Thomas in laughter as he vividly recalls David's panicked face when he showed up at his doorstep with the wrapped box. "What are you doing anyway?" Mario asks after a minute, nodding at the tool in Thomas' hand.  
  
"Ugh, fixing up the baby's nursery," Thomas groans, all humor leaving his voice. "Trying to put together the crib right now. A crib! Never mind that I still have trouble putting my Lego set together."  
  
"Can't you hire someone else to do it for you?" Mario laughs at the mental image of a grown-up Thomas on a green puzzle-shaped play mat.  
  
"Lisa wants us to do it ourselves," Thomas shrugs. "I don't even know why I like this baby so much, it's ruining my life already."  
  
"Do you need some help? I've never put together a crib before, but anything for my future godson."  
  
"Absolutely on that first one," Thomas nods eagerly, stepping out of the way to let Mario in, and the latter feels an undeniable relief wash over him. "As for the godson situation, you'll have to talk it out with Manu."  
  
\-----  
  
Mario spends the next few days mostly with Thomas, David and Thiago, so much so that he nearly forgets about the game against Dortmund that upcoming Tuesday.   
  
It's only when they're at training on Saturday that he's reminded of it, Klopp choosing to run a tactical analysis session instead of a physical training, holing his players up in the projection room and replaying their last four games against Dortmund, and okay, Mario really did not feel like seeing Marco's face on a giant screen right now, reminding him exactly how _not_ over him he is, his forehead sweating when Marco's tackled hard by Jérôme, his palms aching when Marco runs over to him to give him a hug in the tunnel, his pants straining against his near-erection in the dark of the room when the camera pans on a sweaty half-naked Marco walking around the pitch. He really doesn't need that, not when he's trying so hard to move on from his old best friend, going against every one of his instincts.  
  
He tries to forget about him after that and concentrate on the upcoming game instead, but the voice in the back of his mind never really disappears, half nervous half excited about seeing Marco again so soon (but not nearly soon enough,) reminding him of it nearly every minute of the day.  
  
It's when he's standing in the tunnel of the Signal Iduna Park, swaying nervously from one foot to the other that he realizes just how little justified his nervousness the past few week was. Marco walks by him and Thomas in the tunnel, face hard and pale, a firm mask in place where Mario's used to that easy infectious smile, barely shaking their hands before he makes his way to his spot down the line. Mario can't take his eyes off him if he tries, not when he's chatting with Pierre who's right in front of him, a prickle of jealousy coursing through Mario's body when Marco's lips lift upwards on one side at something the boy says.  
  
He shakes it off as they walk onto the pitch, concentrates on the task ahead instead.  
  
It proves a very difficult game, both teams blending superb attacking formations with very solid defending, and it's not until the 65th minute, when the physical exhaustion starts taking its toll on the players that Mario manages to wiggle his way in through Mats and Erik before sending the ball sailing past Bürki and to the back of the net. His teammates are on him in a flash, but their happiness is very short-lived as Marco sends a remarkable cross that finds Pierre's feet only minutes later, the Gabonese stroking it past Manu with ease. There's one more goal on either side in the next few minutes, a perfect free kick from David for Bayern and an unstoppable header from Erik on the other side. It's not until two minutes into extra time when Marco dribbles expertly past Jérôme and David, tricking Manu and shooting the ball into the net that the game's decided, and that's it, Dortmund find themselves on their way to Turin for the UCL final while Bayern are out.  
  
And even with the disappointment flowing through his body, the sadness he feels when he looks at Klopp, the rejection he tries not to pay any attention to when Marco walks right past him without saying a word when Mario tries to congratulate him, he can't feel really bad about losing, not when Marco's the one who won. It's about time he got his first Champion's League trophy anyway.  
  
\-----  
  
It's at the next international break that shit really hits the fan.  
  
Mario and Marco spend the entire first day sidestepping each other, Mario glued to Thomas' side and Marco sticking together with André. They only really interact when Jogi forces them to in training, and for the most part, it's clipped and careful and mostly fine. But Mario can't help but think that something feels off about Marco, his usually carefree demeanor a lot more restrained, his smiles tighter and his features more constricted. Still, Mario catches him staring a few times, something familiar and so very foreign about the way Marco's eyes take Mario in, something that makes Mario shiver with warmth and causes every hair on his body to stand up.  
  
He's lying fitfully on his bed on the eve of the second day, trying - and failing miserably - to keep Marco out of his thoughts when the boy in question barges into his room without knocking, looking disheveled and breathless in a way that makes Mario's heart beat painfully between his ribs, his breath catching in his throat as he jumps off the bed the stand in front of Marco.  
  
They stand there wordlessly staring at each other for a long time, and there it is again, that little something in Marco's gaze when he looks at him that Mario can't quite put his finger on.  
  
He feels himself grow anxious as time trickles by and he starts wracking his brain for something to say, something other than _I'm so in love with you it makes me want to punch myself_ , but that's pretty much all he feels like saying. Marco looks unusually calm and collected in front of him, especially considering he just barged into his room like the hallway's on fire and Mario's his last refuge.  
  
"Why haven't you been calling me?" Mario asks when he can't take the silence anymore, and he regrets it immediately, all too aware that he essentially ignored every one of Marco's attempts at contact back when he was in fact trying to get in touch with him.  
  
Marco's laugh is expectedly short and bitter, with absolutely no humor to it.   
  
"Are you seriously asking me that, Sunny?" He marvels, furrowing his brow unpleasantly, and Mario feels his insides squirm at the nickname that seems to come so naturally even in the worst of times.  
  
Mario can't say anything, feels like kicking himself instead.  
  
"I called you," Marco sighs tiredly, sounding way too sad for Mario's liking, tugging on his heartstrings. "Every single day for over two weeks," he adds, his voice almost breaking at the end. The fact that he sounds more hurt than angry upsets Mario greatly, something breaking in his chest at Marco's words, like his organs are failing him one by one. "And you ignored me. You even got Thomas to blow me off too. Which is why I'm here. I just want to know why."  
  
Mario sucks in a breath at Marco's question, not really sure how to answer that. This is his chance to be honest with him. His chance to tell him that it's breaking him apart that they're not together, that he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night unable to breathe because Marco's away from him.  
  
"Is it because I'm gay?" Marco asks hesitantly, and Mario looks up so suddenly he nearly twists his neck. "I mean, I know you told reporters you support me with this, but maybe the truth is it makes you feel uncomfortable?"  
  
Mario stares for a long time, eyes wide and brow furrowed as he tries very hard to keep the sudden surge of anger from taking over him entirely. "Are you seriously asking me that?" He manages, sounding every inch the disbelieving man he is. "Do you know me at all?"  
  
"I thought I did!" Marco shoots back, sounding frustrated as he takes a step closer to Mario and then stops like he's just realized what he's about to do. "I thought I did," he says again, his voice a lot more quiet and so tired, rubbing his face with his palm and closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath before he continues. "I thought we were on our way back to being friends, but then you started acting weird again. You just shut down anytime Marcel's mentioned, and I don't know, maybe you're not comfortable knowing I sleep with men," he stammers, and Mario hates that he sounds so unsure, hates that Marco really doesn't have a clue. "It's the only thing that makes sense."  
  
And really, Mario just wants to bang Marco's head against the wall right now and yell at the sky and hide under his bed because there are so many things that make so much more sense than Marco's reasoning, the least of which is that Mario's helplessly and completely in love with Marco and cannot stand to think about him with another person.  
  
"This is the only thing that makes sense?" He voices his thoughts, unable to keep the anger from his voice.  
  
"Why else would you be so upset?" Marco wonders, his voice low and pleading, and he looks so pale and weary, like all the will to fight has left his body.  
  
It's on the tip of Mario's tongue. The truth. The _because I've been in love with you since five hours after we met_ he's dying to say.  
  
"Because you were my best friend and you lied to me about who you were," he says instead. And it's true, except that his frustration has nothing to do with the truth in those words and everything to do with the one they hide. It's only worse because if Marco only knew, he could throw those words right back at Mario.  
  
Something like disappointment flashes on Marco's face for a second and it's gone so fast Mario thinks he's dreamed it.  
  
"Look, Mario," Marco sighs tiredly, "the truth is, back when I met you, I wasn't even sure what I was. But then yo- something happened, someone came into my life," he stammers, "and it turned my life upside down. Everything became so much more complicated but it also came with a staggering clarity and I just knew. Like a blurred picture that I hadn't been able to see clearly for all my life suddenly came into focus, with the sharpest lines and the brightest colors. But I couldn't even accept myself for what I was and what I was feeling, so how would I have expected you to? I didn't know if I could trust you not to walk out on me. And in the end, you did regardless."  
  
And suddenly it's all too much. The way Mario feels about Marco, the pain in Marco's voice, the reality that Marco didn't trust him, the fact that all they've done is hurt each other since they met. Marco runs his fingers nervously through his hair and Mario sees it for the first time in the flesh, the tiny 19 engraved on Marco's wrist, a fresh reminder of all the things Mario could have but won't allow himself. It's all too much and Mario thinks he can't breathe all of a sudden. And he knows he's about to do what Marco's just faulted him for, but he can't help himself if he tries. He takes one last look at Marco, at the green eyes staring back at him, before he walks past him, knocking their shoulders together and nearly stumbling in his haste to run out of the room.  
  
\-----  
  
He's a complete mess at training the next day and it has everything to do with what happened the night before.  
  
After he'd ran away from Marco - again, his mind supplies unhelpfully - he left the hotel and wandered the streets of Berlin aimlessly, Marco's words and the way he looked and all the things Mario could've said but didn't colliding in his head until they left him with a crippling headache. By the time he made it back to the hotel, it was already past 2 in the morning, his legs barely able to carry him anymore. He'd headed to the poolside instead of his bedroom, lain down on one of the tanning chairs and stared at the clear dark sky and all its glittering stars so visible tonight despite the lights of the nearby city, Marco's green eyes haunting him. He didn't manage to get shuteye until around 4 in the morning, and he'd woken up with a pain in his neck and sweat on his forehead barely a few hours later, the sun shining mercilessly down on him, a few hotel patrons already surrounding the pool. He'd headed to his room after that, took a very long shower and stayed the rest of the time in Thomas' room, staring blankly at the wall as his friend tried futilely to keep his mind off the night before.  
  
By the time they'd made it back to training, Mario's mood had worsened, all the things he should've said to Marco so clear in his mind that he wished more than once he could rewind time and start last night over.  
  
Still, he'd avoided Marco like the plague, pairing off with Erik instead, his quiet friend a respite from all the drama that's surrounding his life, and they've been stretching peacefully together since.  
  
Jogi divides them into three groups of eight after warm-up, initiating a mock-up match between two teams with the winner expected to face the third. Marco and Mario are put on different teams to Mario's greatest relief, with Manu and Roman on each side.  
  
They're twelve minutes into the first game when Marco filters through the defense, ball expertly at his feet as he makes his way to the goal. Roman comes out to block the shot, unnecessarily shoving Marco back long after the ball's safely tucked in the back of the neck, making every nerve of Mario's stand alert. Marco quickly gathers himself off the floor, staring at Roman, his brow furrowed and Mario really looks at him for the first time since he last saw him in his hotel room, notices the bruises under his eyes, knows they match his own.  
  
"What's your problem, man?" Marco asks as he rubs the spot on his chest where Roman must've hurt him the most, and Mario hears Jogi yell something in the background, but he's too focused on the interaction happening in front of him to concentrate on that. He can see Mats and Thomas take a step closer in his peripheral vision, ready to take whatever's about to come Marco's way.  
  
"What's the matter, princess? Your fag ass can't handle a little shove?" Roman asks, his voice filled with disdain, and suddenly Mario remembers all the times the goalkeeper called him a fat little punk, Mats having to lash out at him on more than one occasion for throwing racist slurs at Nuri and Shinji and even Boa.

   
It's those thoughts that fuel Mario, but mostly the look on Marco's face, the blank eyes and the tight discolored lips that force his feet moving before anyone else can react, crossing the field in three strides and standing on the tip of his toes to land a perfect punch to the tall goalkeeper's face, his knuckles cracking loudly against Roman's jaw before he's being held back by Marco.  
  
"What did you fucking call him?" Mario yells, thrashing against the arms holding him back, nearly breaking free before another set of arms grip his own harder and help keep him contained.  
  
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Mario hears Jogi yell, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing around the field as their teammates rush to hold back a bleeding Roman, and Mario feels a sick sense of comfort when he notices no one's actually checking on the goalkeeper, everyone too busy holding him back to care if he's okay or not.  
  
"YOU LITTLE FUCK! I WASN'T EVEN TALKING TO YOU, I AM GOING TO BREAK YOUR FAT NECK," Roman yells menacingly, thrashing around in Jérôme and Manu's grips, and Mario notices Manu's hold on him is tighter than really needed, like he's trying to cause him pain for what he just did.  
  
"What's the matter, you ignorant piece of shit?" Mario asks, his voice laced with venom but so very calm all of a sudden, like the gravity of what he's about to admit to has somehow quieted his nerves. "Can't handle a little punch from a fag?"  
  
The way he stresses that last word, it leaves no room for questions, for the first time coming out to a group of people with such ease, such clarity that it knocks Mario sideways, clearing his mind and lifting a weight off his shoulders. He can feel Marco's grip on him slacking, his fingers shaking around his waist, but he's too focused on the pure look of horror on Roman's face to really do anything about it, can't hear anything but the sudden silence that lingers in the air as every one of his teammates processes the information they've just been presented with.  
  
"I WILL NOT HAVE ANY VIOLENCE OR ABUSE IN ANY FORM ON MY TEAM," Jogi yells, coming to stand between the two of them and looking from one to the other. "Weindefeller, that's one too many, go home and do not think of ever coming back to the mannschaft while I'm coaching it," he continues, ignoring the goalkeeper's protests before turning to Mario. "And you Götze, I don't care how noble your intentions were, you do not handle ignorance by throwing punches. And from what I understand, it's not the first time you've lashed out in training recently. Go home. You're off the team for this break. And when you come back the next time, it better be with a clear head and a better control over yourself."  
  
"No, coach, please it's my fault," Marco tries to reason behind Mario, struggling to keep a hold on him as he nods at Jogi and starts walking away.  
  
"Let him go, Reus," Jogi insists, and Marco squeezes Mario's hand once more, forcing him to meet his eyes.  
  
Mario feels his heart stop for a long moment when he looks at Marco, green eyes meeting brown, something clicking in place despite everything, before he turns away, letting Marco's hand slip out of his as he makes his way off the field.  
  
\-----  
  
He finds David in his living room when he finally makes it back to Munich that afternoon.  
  
"Let me guess, Thomas called you?" Mario smiles lightly, throwing his keys on the counter near the front entrance and toeing his shoes off, leaving his bags at the door and slumping next to David on the couch.  
  
"Said you had a rough day," David admits, shooting Mario an apologetic look.  
  
"Understatement of the century," Mario snorts and stretches his arms wide before propping his legs up on the small coffee table in front of him. "How's your leg doing?"  
  
"Great," David says smiling. "I should be back in training by next week. In fact," he continues as he gets off the couch and starts making his way to the kitchen, "I'm feeling so good that I'm going to make us some dinner and you're going to tell me all about your crap day."  
  
"You, the man who singlehandedly destroyed my mother's favorite pan trying to boil some pasta, are going to make dinner?" Mario counters, raising his eyebrows at David's retreating back.  
  
"Okay, I'm going to order us some food while you change," David admits, turning to look at Mario before rolling his eyes and continuing his way to the kitchen. "Go change into something other than that German junk you're wearing, it's making me sick to my stomach."  
  
"Only because you wish you could be on my team," Mario calls back as he gets off the couch, smiling to himself as he trails his bag behind him. "And you better be ordering Italian!"  
  
\-----  
  
It seems that David is even hungrier than Mario is, because by the time the latter makes it back to the living room in a pair of cotton shorts and some socks, the low coffee table is laden with no less than eight little plastic containers. It all smells wonderful, cheese and Italian herbs and a lot of garlic mixing together and Mario feels his stomach rumble menacingly, realizing in the moment just how starved for food he really is.  
  
"David, if you're not here in five seconds I'm starting without you!" He threatens, lowering himself carefully until he's seated on his floor, propping one of the empty plates in his lap.  
  
"Jeez, a grateful little friend you make," David mutters as he comes into view, handing Mario a Coke can when he's close enough and flanking himself on the floor on the other side of the table with his drink in hand.  
  
Mario starts opening container after container, very happy to see there's everything from oven-baked lasagna to three-cheese-ravioli. He starts with the bowl of mushroom soup though, digging into the thick gray liquid and smiling when David throws 2 pieces of garlic bread in his plate.  
  
"Dip some of that in it," David says around a mouthful of risotto, smiling at Mario when he nods happily, moaning a little with delight. "But there's desert in the fridge so don't go overboard."  
  
"You are a god," Mario declares.  
  
"So I've been told," David admits, chuckling lightly. "So, get talking," he orders after a while. "Why are you here noshing on Italian food when you should be training for a friendly against Italy right now?"  
  
"Don't even remind me, if Jogi sees what I'm stuffing my face with right now, he'll hang me upside down in the dressing room," Mario rambles, chewing his bread like it's the best thing he's ever had.  
  
"Can't argue that he won't, but that's not the point right now," David agrees, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "Stop trying to change the subject. What happened?"  
  
"I got kicked off the team for this IB," Mario concedes, murmuring the words reluctantly.  
  
"What?!" David yells, nearly spitting his coke. "You, Mario Götze, the closest thing there is to a teacher's pet in the football world, got kicked off the team??"  
  
"Just for this IB," Mario says a little defensively, feeling himself heat up with both shame and a little anger.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I might've punched Roman in the face," Mario admits, slurping a spoonful of soup.  
  
"WHAT?!" David screams again, actually spitting some coke this time.  
  
"Jeez, David, say it don't spray it," Mario mutters, wiping some of the soda off his face and laughing lightly at David's wide eyes.  
  
"You _punched_ Weidenfeller?" Davis marvels with wonder, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. "Not that he probably didn't deserve it, the guy is a racist homophobic douche, but why?"  
  
"Because the guy is a racist homophobic douche," Mario reiterates, sighing and wincing when his knuckles sting painfully at the reminder of what happened earlier during the day. "He called Marco a fag and I just saw red," Mario continues after a moment. "He's an abusive dick and I was already having a horrible day."  
  
"Dude," David says with wonder, "there is so much I want to ask. Let me just," he mutters, shaking his head exaggeratedly to clear it and looking at Mario. "Okay, one thing after the other. What did Löw do?"  
  
"I'm here, aren't I?"  
  
"Not to you! Tell me Weidenfeller got what he deserved? Tell me at least that Marco punched him too or something," David pleads.  
  
"Mats and Boa nearly did, but Marco was too busy holding me back," Mario explains, closing his eyes temporarily as flesh memory kicks in and the feel of Marco's arms around him hits him so suddenly and so sharply that he shudders for a moment. "But Roman's off the team, for good. Jogi had him leave."  
  
"I always liked Löw and now I know why," David mumbles nodding. "And I'm pretty sure Dortmund are letting him go at the end of this season. They ought to anyway the way that new kid's been going at it," he continues, muttering to himself. "Anyway, why were you upset in the first place?"  
  
"Marco came into my room like the hallway was on fire the night before and we had a fight."  
  
David's eyes widen again and he nearly spills his drink for the third time tonight. "Fuck!" He groans reaching for a tissue and wiping his cheek where some soda has made its way. "Is there anything you didn't do this break?"  
  
"Play football?" Mario counters, smirking slightly at David. "It wasn't really a big deal, we just couldn't see eye to eye."  
  
"You mean to tell me the man of your dreams barged in on you in the middle of the night and you had a fight and then you punched someone the next day for him and it's _not a big deal_?!"  
  
"David!" Mario scoffs, and it's his turn to widen his eyes, David's words surprising him by just how much his friend is aware of. He sputters for words for a moment, closing and opening his mouth like a fish, trying to turn his jumbled thoughts into coherent sentences. "Since when do you say things like man of your dreams?"  
  
"Since Marco is," David answers immediately, rolling his eyes. Mario opens his mouth to protest but is interrupted before he can get a peep out. "Mario, my friend, my brother from another mother, you've been fawning over this guy since you were like 18, I think it's fair to assume he's the man of your dreams."  
  
"You didn't even know me when I was 18!" Mario shoots back.  
  
"Alright fine," David groans, exasperated. "21. Is that better? That's still five years too long."  
  
"What do you care how long I've liked Marco?!" Mario replies hot-headed, flushing slightly under the scrutiny and the realization that his attempts at keeping his feelings to himself have failed spectacularly since it seems everybody knows. Well everyone except the person who's supposed to know.  
  
"I care because I've been seeing you struggle to move on since I've known you and you obviously can't, so how about you actually try to see if it can work?" David replies, his frustration reaching its limit, finally placing his drink on the table, fearing his exasperation with Mario will urge him to spill the soda on his friend's head. "He doesn't even know you're gay, for fuck's sake, how is he going to guess that he's allowed to make a move if he wants to?"  
  
Mario's quiet for another moment as he mulls over David's words, placing the ravioli container he's currently cradling on the table.  
  
"Yeah, about that..." He says after a moment, trailing as the memory distracts him.  
  
_Can't handle a little punch from a fag?_  
  
"You told him you're gay?" David asks after a minute, and Mario's pretty sure his wide eyes might become a permanent feature on his face after tonight. He's not sure how Thiago will take the news. It's even worse because his nearly non-existent eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline completely.  
  
"Eh, I might've told the entire team actually in the heat of the moment," Mario admits, trying not to stare at David's comical features anymore, wincing a little at his own words. "Like I said before, the whole thing started because Roman called Marco a fag. So after I punched him I asked him how it felt to be punched by one. In front of everyone. Even Jogi."  
  
"Even Marco?" David asks, and Mario can tell he's trying to process the news.  
  
"Marco was holding me back. Which means he was holding me. Which means he was basically on top of me. There's no way he didn't hear."  
  
"Damn."  
  
"Yep."  
  
\-----  
  
Mario nearly sprints out of the room after his dinner with David, not really wanting to talk or think about Marco and Roman and the fact that everyone on the team now knows about Mario's sexuality.  
  
He goes to bed early and David just smiles at him before wishing him a good night and heading over to one of the guest rooms.  
  
Mario doesn't actually manage any sleep, a set of green eyes haunting him every time he so much as blinks. He's out of his bed and stumbling around his kitchen by 6 am, fumbling blindly with the coffee machine until the brown liquid starts steadily spilling into the clear pot. He sits at the bar staring out into space, and he's not ashamed to admit that Marco's the only thing on his mind as he drowns two cups of coffee. He pours a third cup before he gets up to make David breakfast. He's just finished the pancake mixture when the latter walks into the kitchen in a pair of standard-issued red Bayern boxer briefs, and Mario's tempted to laugh, because it's doesn't matter what his passport says, that boy is Bavarian to the core.  
  
David just smiles at him as he makes his way over to the coffee machine, grabbing a mug and pouring himself some of the caffeinated drink.  
  
Mario's turned on the stove by the times David seats himself on one of the stools, nearly emptying the sugar container into his coffee and causing Mario to wrinkle his nose as he moves around the cabinets to find some plates and place two of them on the counter before handing David some utensils and turning back to his pancakes.  
  
"You're making breakfast," David remarks and Mario's tempted to roll his eyes. It's 7 in the morning and Mario's standing in his kitchen, in front of his stove, with a buttered pan in hand. If he's not making breakfast then they've got a problem.  
  
"You just get smarter day after day, don't you?" He asks, unable to stop himself, and David laughs good-naturedly.  
  
"It's not like you put your culinary skills to use day in and day out," David argues, smiling when Mario places the first finished pancake in front of him. It's impressively round and fluffy and David can't do anything but raise his eyebrows as Mario places the jar of maple syrup in front of him. "Very impressive culinary skills, might I add," David continues, sloshing some of the thick liquid onto his breakfast and digging in. "Who taught you how I make them so fluffy?" He asks, forking a piece of the sweet treat and waving it in the air in a failed attempt to illustrate his point, moaning a little after he chews on the delicious doughy goodness.  
  
"Marco," Mario admits in a low voice, flushing at David's knowing look as memories of him and the boy in question hit him full force, huddled together in Marco's tiny kitchen back in his old apartment dabbling with flour and sugar. He remembers Marco's smile more than anything else, a teasing lift of the lips when Mario screwed up his umpteenth attempt to make pancakes.  
  
"Of course," David mutters happily.  
  
They're quiet after that, Mario lost in thought as he finishes making breakfast. He's seated himself next to David on the counter, his own stack of pancakes steaming deliciously in front of him when he can't keep it in anymore.  
  
"Hey David," he starts, hesitating for only a moment before turning slightly on his stool so he's facing his friend. David doesn't say anything as he looks up from his food. "How do you and Thiago make it work? Like, the fact that you're two professional football players," he adds quickly when David raises his eyebrows a little. "It doesn't scare you that it might ruin your careers if people eventually find out?"  
  
"Why should it," David shrugs. "It didn't ruin Marco's or Ramos' careers."  
  
"Yeah but Marco's not dating another football player," Mario says.  
  
"So? He's still gay, people are going to judge him the same way. Those who support him will stick by him because they'll know it doesn't matter who he likes, and the ignorant few will remain ignorant for the rest of their lives. Doesn't mean he stops living his life."  
  
"But doesn't it scare you, that some people might react badly?" Mario asks, and he sounds like a child to his own ears.  
  
"Of course it does," David admits. "But at the end of the day, it's worth it. Thiago's worth it. And if it means that one day when we decide to come out people won't like us as much, then so be it. The only thing I'm really scared of losing is the person I love. Being together is more important than being accepted by everyone in the world. They're going to judge you for so many other things either way, so why should that stop you from being happy?"  
  
It scares Mario how much sense David's making. How much it makes him want to stop hiding and come out to tell the world he's in love with a man.  
  
"And just so you know, Marco's not dating anyone," David adds as an afterthought, taking another bite of his pancake. "Famous or otherwise."  
  
"What?" Mario asks, his heart hammering in his chest all of a sudden. "But Marcel-"  
  
"Is out of the picture."  
  
Mario takes a moment to breathe, trying pathetically to calm his pounding heart. His palms are sweaty and his ears are buzzing as he tries to understand this new, very relevant piece of information he's just been privy to.  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
"Because Auba's just as eager to have you and Marco get your shit together."  
  
\-----  
  
Mario's very thankful David spends the entire break with him if only because it helps him keep his mind off Marco for a while. And when he says keep his mind off the boy, he means think about him the entire week but force himself not to do anything about it because of David. Although, the latter spends pretty much the entire week urging Mario to do exactly the opposite.  
  
He knows there's really no excuse for him not to come clean anymore, knows that all the pretenses he used to cite as reasons why he can't tell him about his feelings don't hold up anymore. Marco's gay, single, and there's no doubt whatsoever anymore that he knows Mario's gay. There's nothing keeping Mario from calling Marco right now and asking him to give them a shot. Except that his head starts spinning whenever he even thinks about picking up his phone, palms sweaty and aching at the mere thought of hearing Marco's voice when he undoubtedly laughs off Mario's suggestions on the other end of the line.  
  
So he does nothing. He doesn't call, he doesn't text, he doesn't even ask Thomas about him when the lanky Bavarian comes back from international break. Instead, he just hugs him for a long time and smiles when Thomas tells him he's very proud of him for sticking up to Roman like that, brushing away the compliment and changing the subject lest Thomas remembers all the new things this revelation could mean.  
  
He's noshing on some stale chips at home alone the next Friday night when someone knocks on his door. He stands frozen for a second, for some reason very scared of opening the door. Maybe it's because he knows it's not Thomas nor Thiago nor David, all three of his friends having long ago given up on knocking and making full use of their own sets of keys instead. Or maybe it's because for some inexplicable reason he knows that the next few minutes will be a defining moment in his life, can somehow feel that whoever's standing behind that door is about to turn his world upside down.  
  
He's not very surprised when he opens the door to find Marco there, if only because of all the times in the past when Mario's doorbell had rung and he'd concocted scenario after scenario of him opening the door to find Marco, flushed and breathless standing in his hallway. He's nearly tempted to close the door, practically convinced he's hallucinating.  
  
It's the hair that tips him off. It's wild and unkempt and a little more ginger than Marco usually allows it to be, something that Mario's imagination would never paint, his hallucinations always featuring a blonder Marco, hair styled back the way he always perfects it before walking onto the pitch. It's also the eyes looking at him, soft and so much greener than Mario could ever wish them to be, bruised from lack of sleep and a little wide as they take Mario in. It's probably Marco's frame as well, so much thinner than Mario ever remembers it, a little weary and so much paler under the dim hallway lighting.  
  
It sends a shock to Mario's system, all of Marco's imperfections ringing true and helping Mario understand how very little his imagination has to do with the boy standing on his doorstep right now. It sends a violent shudder through his body, the realization making him want to run away as fast as his feet will allow him, but also fold himself into the golden boy's arms and never even come up for air.  
  
"Shouldn't you be in Dortmund?" Mario asks because he can't stop himself, he needs to say something and it's either that or you look so pale it makes me want to kinda do you right now. Or maybe have you do me, cause I'm more into it that way.  
  
He internally rolls his eyes at himself as soon as the words come out. Marco standing on his doorstep right now makes no sense whatsoever and it's fucking with his brain so much.  
  
"Augsburg," Marco shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shuffling a little on his feet.  
  
"What?" Mario asks when he manages to concentrate long enough to form words.  
  
"I'm meant to be in Augsburg. Not Dortmund," Marco clarifies, but Mario still can't find it in himself to actually understand what's going on. "We have a game against them tomorrow."  
  
"I hate to break it to you," Mario says when he realizes he can't stare at Marco for that long without saying anything, raising his eyebrows pointedly, "but you're in the wrong place. You've got a little over an hour by train to reach Augsburg."  
  
"I know," Marco nods, his shit-eating grin making a very welcome appearance on his face. "I just came from there."  
  
"You came all the way from Augsburg?" Mario balks, his eyes widening. _Why is Marco on his doorstep right now?_  
  
"It's barely an hour away," Marco dismisses with a wave of his hand, shrugging again, his entire body shooting forward for a second. "Auba's covering for me anyway, that way I don't have to go back tonight and drive when it's so dark outside."  
  
"You're planning on spending the night?" Mario asks, his heart beating wildly in his chest, hope and love and confusion all mingling together until he has to physically grab the doorway to keep from falling.  
  
"I'm definitely not driving back there tonight," Marco confirms. "Whether or not I spend the night in a hotel depends entirely on what's about to happen next."  
  
"What's going to happen next?" Mario repeats, feeling not unlike a parrot, and a dumb one at that, what with the way his palms are sweating and his words are all jumbled, voice a little choked up.  
  
"Your reaction to what I'm about to say," Marco explains.  
  
"Which is?" Mario whispers, swallowing thickly, his eyes tracing Marco's face, his light golden beard making Mario's stomach tighten in a way that makes him both entirely uncomfortable and too comfortable for his liking.  
  
"It took me forever to figure this out," Marco starts, his eyes meeting Mario with such unwavering intensity. "Or more like it took me about a year to accept that Auba's figured it out for me," he continues rambling, smiling a little to himself before shifting gears again. He goes quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking. "I'm not even sure I got it right, but I don't know, after the last break, it's the only thing that makes sense anymore."  
  
"What does?" Mario asks, his whisper breathy and weak.  
  
"I still think it's too good to be true," Marco starts rambling again, completely sidestepping Mario's question. "Because if I got it right, it's like the planets have all lined up-"  
  
"Marco, what-"  
  
"And the planets have never lined up quite this way for me before, what with the last World Cup fiasco, and all those finals where I came so close to winning, and wit-"  
  
"Marco!" Mario interrupts, his patience running thin. Can't this dumb boy in front of him see that he might collapse at any moment if he doesn't tell him why he's here in the next twenty seconds? Marco stops talking and looks at Mario like he just noticed he's here. "What do the planets lining up mean for you?"  
  
Marco stares for a second, taking a step closer before hesitating and stopping, but he's so close now, so close Mario can see those light freckles that dust his nose and cheeks.  
  
"It means," he whispers, swallowing thickly before picking up, "that you'll agree to go out with me when I ask you to in the next few minutes." He's quiet for another moment, taking a deep breath like he hasn't been able to do so properly in a while. "It means you feel the same way about me as I do about you. Maybe not the exact same way," Marco mutters to himself, shifting his eyes from Mario to the floor and back again, "because I can't exactly expect you to be so far gone to do some of things I've done, but-"  
  
"Like tattooing my number on your wrist?" Mario asks, interrupting Marco who pales and looks at Mario like he's just seen a ghost, clasping his right hand around his left wrist tightly.  
  
Mario, for his part, can't stop grinning, the world suddenly making so much sense, this confrontation seeming so easy all of a sudden, like all the billion hours Mario's spent imagining it happening have amounted to absolutely nothing because they were never needed in the first place. Because it was always going to happen, and it was always going to be this easy, and it was always going to turn Mario's world upside down. Or downside up, because maybe his life has always been  little skewed and all it needed was for Marco to come and fix it for him.  
  
"How do you know?" Marco whispers, his eyes wide as Mario takes a step towards him and wraps his fingers around Marco's hand on his wrist.  
  
Mario doesn't say anything, keeping a firm grip on Marco instead. He tries for a reassuring smile as he spreads Marco's fingers apart under his and links their hands together, never taking his eyes off Marco's as he pries his fingers off slowly, keeping their hands together when he successfully releases the tattooed wrist. He starts hesitantly tracing Marco's left palm with his other hand, fingers traveling down and drawing random patterns until he's circling the area where he thinks the tiny inked confession is.  
  
"Can I see it?" He asks, his voice low and husky against the quiet night, and Marco nods mutely, his green eyes softening as he takes a step closer towards Mario.  
  
It's at that moment that Mario realizes they're still standing in the doorway, and he takes a step back, keeping a firm grip on Marco and dragging him along until they're in the confines of Mario's apartment. He kicks the door closed once they're in, standing even closer to Marco and lifting his wrist up to examine it closely. He feels a breath of relief escape his lips when he sees the tiny script there, like there was ever any real possibility it wouldn't be, like maybe it was just a figment of his imagination in the first place and Marco's just humoring him. He smiles lightly as he examines the tiny number, nearly invisible amid all those giants tattoos, like a whispered confession in the middle of a tropical hurricane.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mario murmurs, thumbing the tattoo gently, and Marco smiles as he nervously reaches out his hand to lay his fingers on Mario's neck, the latter's hand still resting around his wrist.  
  
Mario can't help but close his eyes and sigh when he feels Marco's fingers slowly claim him, like a pair of tiny wings flapping along his collarbone. There's something so calming about it, a relief that feels a lot like drinking an ice cold glass of water and suddenly realizing you were completely parched, like sewing up a wound that you didn't know was there in the first place.  
  
"Because I didn't think you'd ever feel the same way," Marco admits, moving their entwined hands until they're resting on Mario's waist, keeping the other firmly on Mario's neck as he takes a step closer to him, their noses nearly touching now, and it's ridiculous that one boy should make Mario feel this way, that one boy makes him want to voice all those clichés he never believed in, because he really does feel like singing all of a sudden, he really does feel like him and Marco were made for each other. This right here, it really does feel like coming to a home he never knew was his but that feels better than any other place he's ever been before. "I was worried I'd push you away if you learned the truth," Marco adds, and Mario laughs bitterly because in the end he ran away for the exact opposite reason. "And you had Ann..."  
  
"The thing with Ann was real for about five days," Mario confesses, raising his eyebrows and mirroring Marco's smile. "She saw right through me on the second date and decided she liked me enough to fake it with me."  
  
"She must've _really_ liked you if she was willing to fake it with you," Marco teases, his mouth lifting up on one side and making Mario blush.  
  
"Asshole," Mario mutters, punching Marco lightly in the ribs, trying to keep himself under control. "You know what I mean."  
  
"Yeah," Marco whispers, his voice trailing and his eyes gaining a sudden intensity, growing serious as he takes Mario in.  
  
Mario swallows thickly, already aware where this is going, but he's not ready to give it up yet, so he clears his throat when Marco starts leaning in, pulling away a little.  
  
"What?" Marco asks, trying to remain calm but Mario can see the rising panic in his eyes that he's trying so hard to hide.  
  
"I believe you wanted to ask me something?" Mario asks, his eyes fixing Marco with the most innocent stare he can muster, the latter relaxing marginally at the comment, chucking quietly to himself.  
  
"You're a complete dick, Götze. I can already see you're going to make a horrible boyfriend."  
  
"Yes, well, you're certainly not going to find out if that's true by insulting me before you've even asked me out," Mario comments, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Marco.  
  
Marco only laughs again, looking at the floor for only a moment before catching Mario completely off-guard and capturing his lips. Mario's undignified protest at feeling so cheated suffers a most horrible death before it's even out, suddenly so overwhelmed by Marco, his scent and the feeling of his rough beard against Mario's cheek, his taste as he licks his way into Mario's mouth, tongue sliding on Mario's bottom lip until he can't help but open his mouth, doesn't want anything other than to feel Marco's tongue against his, than to taste the boy that's kissing him forever. He can also feel goosebumps prickle on his skin where Marco's fingers trace random patterns and nameless shapes on his waist and shoulder blades, and it's all too much, intoxicating and so completely perfect that Mario nearly tips them both over as he grabs Marco by the front of his shirt to pull him even closer, something that's very nearly impossible with how close they're already standing. In the end, it's Marco who pulls back first, his breathing labored and thick as he tries to calm himself, soft puffs of air fanning Mario's cheeks, his fingers tight around his waist like he's afraid if he lets go it will all disappear, and Mario tries to reassure him that this is real, fists Marco's shirt tighter in his hands as he rests his forehead on Marco's collarbone.  
  
He thinks his heart might fly out of his chest, his palms aching pleasantly and every inch of him tingling as he tries to process what just happened, what is still happening.  
  
Marco pulls back for a second, nudging Mario's cheek with his nose before planting a firm kiss to Mario's neck when he looks up at him. Mario shudders at the warmth the tiny pucker of lips sends through his body, smiling with heavy-lidded eyes when Marco pulls back and presses their foreheads together.  
  
"Hey, Sunny?" He whispers, the smile in his voice clear even with Mario's eyes half-closed. "Will you go out with me?"  
  
\-----  
  
It's not the first time they talk about it. Ever since they failed to lift the 2018 trophy, Mario and Thomas have found themselves huddled together so many times, talking about what it would mean for them to win another World Cup and end their international careers on a high, imagining all sorts of scenarios, most of them involving the possibility of them scoring a slew of goals and making it to the end.  
  
"Marioooooo," a small whiny voice reaches Mario even before the perpetrator is there, interrupting Mario and Thomas' scheming, and Mario turns around, sighing fondly when he finds Matthias coming into the living room, hair wet and cheeks flushed, the 6-year-old a splitting imagine of Thomas. "You promised you'd come swim with us over an a hour ago," the boy pouts, stopping short when he's right in front of Mario and folding his skinny arms.  
  
"Aren't Marco and David in the pool with you?" Mario asks, an amused smile playing on his lips, looking over at Thomas for a brief second.  
  
"They are," Matthias nods exaggeratedly, "but David keeps talking about how he wants to call Thiago because he misses him and Marco sent me to find you to tell you that if you don't join us in the next five minutes, he's going to hurt your left back."  
  
"No offense Mario," Thomas intervenes, snorting heavily before speaking, "but David can take Marco any day."  
  
"Don't I know it," Mario mutters, rolling his eyes as he starts getting off the couch. "I swear he's got ankles made of porcelain and yet somehow he thinks he can take anyone down."  
  
"Uncle Mariooooo," he hears another voice call out to him, this one even more high-pitched and a lot more urgent and he looks up to find little Sarah running into the room in all her 3-year-old glory, dark blond hair dripping wait all over the floor, leaving a trail behind her as she hangs on to a red inflatable wheel that's hiding her entirely, her purple swimming suit peeking from behind the inflatable toy.  
  
"Jesus, Sarah, you're getting water all over the place!" Thomas jumps off the couch, raising his hands dramatically to his hair like he's just missed an open goal. "Your mom is going to kill me."  
  
"But dad, this is not our home," she says with wide-eyes innocence, tiptoeing the rest of the way towards Mario as if it's going to stop the water from falling.  
  
"Just because we're not in our house in Germany right now, doesn't mean we're not paying for this place and it certainly doesn't mean that your mom won't kill me for getting it wet," Thomas explains in the weirdest way and Mario wonders not for the first time how this overgrown child has been a father for the past six years.  
  
"Thomas, won't you relax a little," Mario interrupts, hoisting Sarah onto his hip when she's close enough, her water wheel making it awfully hard not to look awkward doing it. "Our World Cup boot camp doesn't start until next week, so until then, live a little. And I'm paying in part for this place too, so I say it can use a little water. We're in sunny Ibiza, so if there's anywhere in the world where you're allowed to get the floors wet, it's here."  
  
Thomas rolls his eyes at Mario, walking past him and Sarah but not before planting a slobbering kiss on his daughter's cheek who laughs giddily and wipes her cheek frantically, nearly causing her and Mario to tumble down with that giant wheel in the way.  
  
"Sarah," Mario starts as he tries lifting the inflatable toy with one arm, "can you just let the wheel go until we're in the water," he continues as he finally successfully gets it off and hands it to Matthias.  
  
"Yessss," Sarah says excitedly, reaching her little arms until they're holding on to Mario's neck tightly, grinning at him as he maneuvers her until she's facing him completely. "Uncle Mario can you teach me to jump in the pool like Marco and David and Matti?"  
  
"Absolutely," Mario nods as he follows Thomas and Matthias, smiling at the little girl who hugs him closer, gripping onto his neck tightly until he can barely breathe, not letting go even when they're outside.  
  
Mario's gaze locks with Marco's as soon as they're in the backyard, Marco's eyes so green and happy in the bright sun. He's sitting poolside in his yellow swim trunks, his thin, defined body shimmering in the sun as a thousand droplets of water make their way down his flushed torso and arms, his legs dipped in the water as he chats excitedly with David.  
  
Marco and David both lower themselves into the water as soon as they spot the brood coming, but Marco's eyes don't leave Mario for a second.  
  
"Sarah, baby, you have to let go if you want me to get in the pool with you," Mario urges softly, gently pulling at the little girl's arms until she eases back and peers at him.  
  
"Okay," she nods after a moment, reluctantly accepting the fact that she has to let go of her favorite uncle.  
  
Mario kisses her temple affectionately before he lowers her onto the ground, pulling his white shirt off as soon as he's free, walking closer to the edge of the pool and easing himself into the water. Marco's there in front of him in a flash, his crooked grin infuriatingly perfect, ginger locks wet and flushed cheeks shimmering in the sun, and Mario dunks his heads into the water before he pulls up and meets his boyfriend's lips, barely able to remind himself to keep it PG. Marco pulls away after a moment, his half-smirk even more pronounced as he finds Mario's fingers under the water.  
  
"If we don't stop now, I won't be able to keep myself from scarring Matthias and Sarah forever," Marco admits and Mario chuckles giddily, wondering not for the first time how he manages to fall deeper in love with Marco everyday, as cliché as it sounds. "And we can't have David start whining about Thiago again," he mutters, turning to eye David. "I'm not even sure how I got him to stop."  
  
Mario laughs again, stepping back until he's further away from Marco but keeping their fingers linked under the water. He looks around and notices Sarah still standing poolside, eyeing Matthias enviously as he runs back and jumps into the pool, splashing David and Thomas in the process, and Mario remembers his promise.  
  
"Hey Sarah," Mario calls out to her, coming closer towards the edge of the pool and pulling Marco along with him. The little girl's ears perk up and she makes her way over to him with hesitant steps. "Jump in?"  
  
"Without my wheel?" Sarah panics, her eyes growing wider and she shakes her head vehemently.  
  
"I thought you wanted to learn how to jump like Marco and Matti," Mario tells her. "Marco and I are going to teach you. We'll catch you, so don't worry."  
  
Sarah stands there, her eyes worried and unsure as she stares at her uncles.  
  
"Come on, sissy," Matthias says, swimming over to them as fast as his little body allows him. "I'll help you too," he adds, and Sarah relaxes immediately at her brother's encouragement, taking one step closer towards the edge.  
  
"You'll catch me?" She asks, looking at Marco for confirmation who nods immediately.  
  
"Just like Manu always catches the ball before it ever reaches the net," he reassures, and Sarah nods firmly. "Lucky bastard," Marco mutters under his breath, making both Mario and David erupt with laughter around him.  
  
"I'm coming!" Sarah exclaims all of a sudden, jumping out of nowhere until there's five pairs of arms scrambling to reach her in time. In the end, it's Marco who catches her, hoisting her little body into the water and gripping her tightly before her head is submerged, lifting her victoriously in the air as the other boys cheer around him, Sarah laughing gleefully in his arms.  
  
"Let's do it again!"  
  
\-----  
  
It's on the actual day of the 2022 World Cup final that Mario realizes how little his musings with Thomas come close to the reality and thrill of it, to the fear and excitement and adrenaline that pumps through his veins knowing this is the last game he'll ever play for Germany, knowing he'll have to make it count, all of them, him and Marco and Thomas and Mats and Boa. It's their last World Cup and they'll have to win it. And win it they do.  
  
The first time around, they struggled for a little under two hours before Mario scored the winning goal, were completely drained by the time he'd expertly toed the ball into the net. It's completely different this time though, with Mario netting the third goal of the game against France in the 78th minute, receiving a perfect pass from Thomas and sending the ball sailing past Lloris. Marco had already successfully converted a free kick just outside the box minutes before the half-time whistle, and Thomas had received a cross from Marco and scored a soaring header right after they came back from break.  
  
The other major difference between this time and the last one is that Marco's the first one to reach him after he scores, flinging his arms around him as soon as he's close enough, sending them both tumbling giddily on the ground, their teammates forming a human shield around them as they join the pile, and Mario can feel hands ruffling his hair and patting his shoulders but he knows it's Marco's lips in his hair, knows it's his fingers tickling his neck and his body on top of his, and he can't do anything but smile into his shoulder, pressing one last kiss to his neck when he feels their teammates start to pull away and run back to the game, gratefully taking Thomas' hand when he offers one to each him and Marco to help them up. He throws one last look at Marco as they follow their teammates, his whole body on fire as the man he loves smiles at him and ruffles his hair lightly before shooting away to take position.  
  
That's possibly the best part of it this time too. While the thought of winning two World Cups in his career thrills Mario to the core, the idea of Marco winning his first is what drives him to try harder. He tried to make it happen four years ago, but the departure of Fips and Miro and Per had left a larger hole than any of them had imagined, the newer players having a harder time filling for them, their inexperience and nerves getting the better of them. They'd made it to the end but lost to Spain ultimately, and it was a very hard pill to swallow, especially when Mario had seen the disappointed look on Marco's face, his shoulder slumped and his eyes glistening with tears he'd refused to shed, the blow of losing another final taking its toll on him. They'd spent two weeks on a boat in Ibiza with their friends after that, sun-bathing and swimming their days away and holing themselves in their room at night where Mario tried to kiss the pain away from Marco, giving in completely and readily falling apart under his fingers night after night as Marco kissed and licked and sucked Mario's skin like it was his, because it was and would always be his, taking comfort in the fact that when all of it's gone, when they won't even get to try to win those trophies anymore they'll still have this, and Marco's arms will still feel like Mario's home, and that little crook between Mario's neck and shoulder will still fit Marco like it was made for him.  
  
But they do win it this time, and Mario's sandwiched in his favorite spot between Marco and Thomas when Mats lifts the cup high in the air, confetti everywhere as the stars shine bright in the night sky, and he can't even hear himself think over all the cheering around him, but somehow he can hear Marco, can recognize his excited shouts among all the others, can hear his heart beating wildly in his chest when the trophy makes its way down to them until they're both holding it high in the air, Mario's fingers covering Marco's around the golden sculpture.  
  
They make their way down to the pitch where their families wait for them afterwards, and Mario finds his folks chatting happily with Marco's parents, Ann, Mel, Ivy and Fabian laughing nearby as Nico and Mia and run around with Matthias and Sarah, chasing after Soley and Lamia and shooting balls around the field, laughing maniacally when Thomas, now officially the World Cup's all-time top scorer (having broken Miro's record by two goals), joins them on the field. Mario hugs his friends and family one by one, chuckling when Ann ruffles his hair, kissing his cheek sloppily as he rubs her protruding belly, shaking Leo's hand when Ann's husband finds them on the pitch.  
  
He and Marco are ushered towards some reporters after that, the press eager to interview the new winners. He's lucky enough that the woman interviewing him is one he's encountered on a few occasions, her warm smile and friendly behavior always a fresh contrast to that of so many other more serious reporters, and Mario doesn't plan on doing it, doesn't realize he wants to say it, but when she asks him if there's anyone special he's going to share this trophy with, the words flow out before he can stop them.  
  
"My husband, actually, and I'm pretty sure he's just as excited as I am, maybe even more so seeing as it's actually his first time scoring in a World Cup final."  
  
\-----  
  
"Did it start yet?"  
  
Marco flips through the channels until he finds the one he's looking for, places the drinks he's holding on the table before he moves over to the couch.  
  
"Not yet, but at the pace you're going, you're going to miss it anyway."  
  
"Ugh, stop being so dramatic about it," Marco grumbles as he makes his way into the living room. "I was just making myself a sandwich. I'm here now," he continues, sitting down next to Mario who perks his head up to look at his husband, his mouth watering at the smell of grilled cheese.  
  
"You didn't make me one?" He nearly squeaks, his stomach grumbling angrily as he scoots closer to Marco.  
  
"I asked you three damn times if you wanted one, Sunny! You said you were fine," Marco smirks around a mouthful of bread, looking at Mario from under his lashes.  
  
"But I want one now," Mario says, his voice bordering on hysteria. "I didn't think it would look this good. And you've got two sandwiches! What do you need sandwiches for?"  
  
"Because I know my husband well enough to know he's a ravenous bastard who will undoubtedly end up devouring one of them even when he says he doesn't want to," Marco shoots back, smiling wolfishly at Mario and handing him the plate.  
  
"Oh thank god," Mario sighs, grabbing the plate in a flash and stuffing his mouth with the sandwich. "You know I love you," he adds around a mouthful of grilled cheese, chewing obnoxiously in Marco's ear.  
  
"I'd be a lot more convinced if you weren't looking at the sandwich when you said it," Marco mutters slightly put-off, but he can't help but wrap his arm around Mario when the latter scoots further down into the couch and closer to him until he's nearly on top of Marco, his entire right side resting against Marco's left one, and Marco doesn't know if he loves him because he's a chubby sandwich-hogging cuddle-loving obnoxious drama queen or in spite of it.  
  
"Thank you," Mario says when he's swallowed another bite, turning to look at Marco and flashing him the biggest smile he can muster.

Because of it. Definitely because of it.  
  
Marco doesn't say anything, just leans down and pecks his husband's lips for a short second before pulling back, smiling gratefully when Mario shove the sandwich in his face so he can take a bite.  
  
"So, explain to me again why they're doing this?" Marco asks when he's swallowed his food, raising the volume when he notices the interviewer starting his opening monologue. "I mean it's one thing to come out, but David and Thiago are teammates who are about to tell the entire world they're together. I mean, don't get me wrong, I think it's great, what they're doing. I started this thing and you stepped it up a notch when you told everyone we were married. But this right here is going to cause some next level hysteria in the football world."  
  
"They want to adopt a kid," Mario shrugs his shoulders. "I mean, they haven't started on the papers or anything yet, but they want to make sure it's out before they do. You can't exactly raise a kid together and still pretend to be straight."  
  
"That's amazing," Marco says, smiling genuinely and raising the volume a little more when Thiago and David settle in their couches. "And so incredibly brave."  
  
"I know," Mario agrees, resting his head on Marco's shoulder. "Hey Marco?" He whispers, looking up at his husband and locking their eyes together, one of his hands playing with Marco's fingers.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Thank you for being the bravest of us all," he says, closing his eyes when Marco leans in to leave another gentle kiss to his lips, this time a little longer, like he's trying to memorize the taste of him before having to pull back.  
  
"You're welcome, Sunny."

 


End file.
